I'll dream no more

"My first look on thy spotless spirit fell.And fate put forth its hand—inexorable—cold."Schiller

I'll dream no more; let me go forthWhere the wild rose seeks its dwelling,'Neath the green-wood shade in quiet laidBy the fountain gently swelling.

The fire of youth from my brow hath pas'd,Tho' the minstrel spell is o'er me,Yet the chords are jarred and the music marred,Of the broken lute before me.

No hand again may touch its chords,Or its loosened strings awaken:Life's happy dreams, like its music, seemsA melody forsaken.

Forsaken—yet life's stream flows on,And it beareth on its foamThe wreck of towers, built in happier hours,When the spirit loved to roam.

And the murmuring of its restless wave,(For memory such thou art,)Tho' its every tone be but a moan,Findeth echo in my heart.

I'll dream no more; dreams are not bliss,When the heart and lute are riven;We can weave no spell despair to quell,'Till we forth the fiend have driven.