XXXIV. A sense of coldness, like the atmosphere, When chilled by the rude winter's snowy blast, Has passed between us now: and--lone and sear, Like the last autumn leaf that fell at last, Though on its parent stem it fain would stay, With days, perchance, as bright as yesterday-- Our hopes have fallen--yet, my Mary, yet, There is no lethean power can teach me to forget. XXXV. For, in that young affection's early dream, There was the presence and the soul of joy, Which, like the stars, though clouds obscure them, beam With hues of Heav'n, that earth cannot destroy: Dark desolation may be o'er our path, And the fierce lightnings rive it in their wrath, And scalding tears may weep their sources dry, Yet, will that love live on, on its own agony. XXXVI. E'en like--if we its hopes may personate-- Fall'n Marius, 'mid the ruins, when he stood And pondered darkly o'er his desperate fate, Alone, in th' o'erthrown City's solitude. Oh! we may build a fairy home for love-- But, when 'tis blasted, how can we remove? How from the ruins can the ruined part? Or how rebuild the hope that, falling, crushed the heart. XXXVII. And, mused I now, as that stern exile mused, 'Mid fallen columns, cities overthrown, With Desolation all around diffused, I should seem less than I seem now alone-- For it would be companionship; but here There is no sympathy with mortal tear: The skies are smiling, and the forests rise In their green glory up, aspirers to the skies!-- XXXVIII. And the wild river, laughing, laves its banks-- A babbler--like a happy-hearted girl, Dancing along with free and frolic pranks; The leaves, o'erhanging, tremble like the curl That plays upon her forehead as she goes-- While 'mid the branches, free from human woes, The wild bird carols to its happy mate, Glad in the present hour, nor anxious for its fate. XXXIX. But there is one tree blasted 'mid the green, Surrounding forest; and an eagle, there, Looks sadly o'er the gaily, glitt'ring scene, A mourner--with his bleeding bosom bare:-- No more! no more! he'll reach his eyry now, Or sport in triumph o'er the mountain's brow; His wing may hide the death-bolt as he dies, No more shall it expand to bear him to the skies.