Anon ’tis broken, and the future sobs A low, sad warning of the storm to come. ’Tis Passion’s earthquake rising in its might, To scatter thought, as gathered cloud on cloud, It hangs around the pinnacles of mind, Perchance deep-freighted with some glorious truth, Which, could it melt away in genial showers, Would bless and beautify a desert world. As some strong column, God-erected, on The mountain’s misty summit, the young heart Sways to and fro between the Right and Wrong— The first may triumph, or the last may win, It matters not, wild Passion’s dreams is past, The soul is stagnant—but it sleeps no more. Cradled in heaven, but entombed in hell, Then comes the torture of its aching void, Silent, beneath the suffocating press Of bitter, sullen agony it lies. The spirit sickens with its loneliness— And thirst of _power_ dissolves the icy spell, Which bound its pulses into leaden sleep; Then mad Ambition withers down the wrecks Of disappointed Passion, as the crash Of thunder follows in the lightning’s path; The myrtle-wreath, now trampled and despoiled, Is dashed aside to grasp a laurel crown. The meed of genius, and of victory! The past becomes a broken altar-stone. But from the ashes of its cold despair The strong soul rises into glorious life, Like a young Phœnix flaming into birth. Sweet rainbow-tinted fancies have decayed, But lofty thoughts like gorgeous banners wave In triumph o’er the citadel of Mind— Though tossed, perchance, upon a sigh which tells Of ruined hope, and desolated love; The eloquence of passion-parted lips Has softly faded, like the rich perfume Of burning incense—but a vaporous flame Of proud defiance scathes the listening world. Thus goaded on to action by the fire That madly rages in a wasted heart, It struggles on to win the dust of time, To strew it o’er the amaranthine leaves Of an immortal coronal; its fame Flashes, a meteor through the changing sky Of popular opinion, ever urged “_Onward—still onward_”—by the iron hand Of strong, resistless Destiny. The storm, The rocking earthquake, and devouring fire, Have done their work upon the heart and soul; Have torn away the sweetest bloom of life And flung it wantonly upon the world— Corroding Care has shed its poison dew O’er Pleasure, which is foam upon the wave— And Shame’s red plague-spot flashes in the heart, While Pride and Passion’s flaming lava-drops Fall hissing through its purest depths, to change Their sweets to bitter burning.