—— And muttered, lost ! lost ! lost !”
Sir W. Scott, Bart.

’Tis vain to grieve for what is past,1
The golden hours are gone ;2
My own mad hand the die hath cast,3
And I am left alone :4
’Tis vain to grieve—I now can leave5
No other bliss—yet still I grieve !6
The dreadful silence of this night7
Seems breathing in my ear ;8
I scarce can bear the lonely light9
That burns oppress’d and near)10
I stare at it while half reclin’d,11
And feel its thick light on my mind.12
The sweetest fate have I laid waste13
With a remorseless heart ;14
All that was beautiful and chaste,15
For me seem’d set apart ;16
But I was fashion’d to defy17
Such treasure, so set richly by.18
How could I give up her, whose eyes19
Were fill’d with quiet tears,20
For many a day—when thoughts would rise,21
Thoughts darken’d with just fears,22
Of all my vices !— Memory sees23
Her eyes’ divine remonstrances.24
A wild and wretched choice was mine,25
A life of low delight ;26
The midnight rounds of noise and wine,27
That vex the wasted night ;28
The bitter jest, the wearied glee, 29
The strife of dark society.30
To those who plung’d me in the throng31
Of such disastrous joys,32
Who led me by low craft along,33
And stunned my mind with noise34
I only wish they now could look35
Upon my Life’s despoiled book.36
When Midnight finds me torn apart37
From vulgar revelry,38
The cold, still Madness of the heart39
Comes forth, and talks with me ;40
Talks with me, till the sky is grey41
With the chill light of breaking day.42
My love is lost—my studies marr’d,43
My friends disgrac’d and chang’d ;44
My thoughts all scatter’d and impair’d,45
My relatives estrang’d :46
Yet can I not by day recall47
My ruined Spirit from its thrall.48