Fragment.

Pity me, love! I'll pity thee,     If thou indeed hast felt like me.     All, all my bosom's peace is o'er!     At night, which was my hour of calm,     When from the page of classic lore,     From the pure fount of ancient lay     My soul has drawn the placid balm,     Which charmed its every grief away,     Ah! there I find that balm no more.     Those spells, which make us oft forget     The fleeting troubles of the day,     In deeper sorrows only whet     The stings they cannot tear away.     When to my pillow racked I fly,     With weary sense and wakeful eye.     While my brain maddens, where, oh, where     Is that serene consoling prayer,     Which once has harbingered my rest,     When the still soothing voice of Heaven     Hath seemed to whisper in my breast,     "Sleep on, thy errors are forgiven!"     No, though I still in semblance pray,     My thoughts are wandering far away,     And even the name of Deity     Is murmured out in sighs for thee.