Earth has no green such as once it wore,
When my young life with love was crowned;
And the very breeze, thro’ the summer trees,
Comes with a ’plaining sound.
When I hear the glad shouts of revelry
To the bride in her bridal wreath,
I know not why, but she seemeth aye
Like a victim bound for death.
Once hope threw her spell around this heart,
Once genius made me proud;
I was not born to bear the scorn
Of the rude unmannered crowd.
Now, hope from my breast is a banished thing,
To the winds of my genius given;
And I long to rise, thro’ the cloudless skies,
To the sunlit isles of heaven.
O sweet may the flowers be in India’s bowers,
Where the bulbul tells her tale,
But sweeter to me is the moss-rose tree
That grows in my native vale.
Can I ever forget the…
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