Time roused me slowly from my golden dream, Love, born in smiles, survived to mourn in tears; Earth’s brightest blessings are not what they seem; Beneath the sober influence of years Fancy’s gay blossoms fade, and truth appears. When word or frown impatient care betrayed, My wounded soul could not disguise her fears That now my lord with colder feelings weighed And felt the sacrifice which blinded love had made. And what I felt I spoke; my untamed soul The task of patient love had yet to learn, Each word, each look, each feeling to control, Harshness with meek submission to return, By charms more lasting, love more lasting earn, This to my spirit was a task unknown; My lip would quiver, and my cheek would burn, By glance reproachful and upbraiding tone I marred Montoro’s happiness—and crushed my own. Hardships and cares, by eager love defied, Heavy upon my weary spirit pressed,— The struggle between poverty and pride,— Ill could my temper bear the bitter test, Exhausted hope could find no place of rest; I, for the love of one, had all resigned, And now my heart in bitterness confessed, Though faithful love might yet remain behind, It was no more the light of joy, the sunbeam of the mind. Yet I content, nay, happy might have proved, Could I have meekly stooped the yoke to bear, Nor sought perfection in the man I loved; But I had hoped a heaven on earth to share,— Too ardent hope rebounds into despair. When pride or passion fix the nuptial chain, Time must the gilding from the fetters wear,— Love’s golden links alone unchanged remain, Hallowed by faith, to be renewed in Heaven again. I now approach the crisis of my woes. One, known in early life, again I met;— With proud disdain I had regarded those Who—low by birth, by nature lower—yet Their upstart confidence in riches set; And could I calmly Agnes now behold Her brow encircled with a coronet, Endure her haughty smile, her greeting cold, Who owed her triumph solely to the power of gold? I felt the press of poverty, and she Had only to desire—and to possess; Yet why should sight of her prosperity Add to my cup one drop of bitterness? Her luxuries made not my comforts less. I know it now, though my deluded heart Would then have scorned its weakness to confess; Envy had fixed within his venomed dart, And love had no sweet balm to heal the wounded part. Hate’s ready weapon, ridicule, I sought, The lightest word may give the deepest wound,— Montoro’s sparkling wit the impulse caught, His jests, by malice circulated round, Too soon a fatal destination found. Words are but breath, but breath may kindle flame Destined to level cities with the ground! My God, from Thy dread wrath the judgment came, But oh! my guilt, my wretchedness were still the same!