Will no remorse, will no decay,
O Memory, soothe thee into peace?
When life is ebbing fast away
Will not thy hungry vultures cease?
Ah no! as weeds from fading free,
Noxious and rank, still verdantly
Twine round a ruin'd tow'r;
So to the heart untam'd, will cling
The memory of an evil thing,
In life's departing hour:
Green is the weed when grey the wall,
And thistles rise while turrets fall.

II.

Yet open Memory's book again,
Turn o'er the lovelier pages now,
And find that balm for present pain,
Which past enjoyment can bestow:
Delusion all, and void of power,
For e'en in Thought's serenest hour,
When past delights are felt,
And Memory shines on scenes of woe,
'Tis like the moonbeam on the snow,
That gilds but cannot melt;
That throws a mockery lustre o'er,
But leaves it cheerless as before.

III.

Her sweetest song will only tell
Of long departed noon;
Of things we lov'd, alas! how well;
And lost, alas! how soon;
For feelings blasted, hopes deferr'd,
And secret woes unseen, unheard
By the cold crowd around;
Will rise, and make their plaintive moan,
And mingle with her softest tone,
Till in their murmurs drown'd,
Her lyre shall lose its soothing flow,
And only tell a tale of woe.

IV.

Tho' Hope's bright scenes be false and vain,
Her's is the beauty of deceit;
Tho' Pleasure's cup hold dregs of pain,
One sip upon the brim is sweet:
Yes, they have charms, tho' false and few,
Tho' soon they vanish from the view,
Impalpable as air:
But Memory soothes not, charms not, brings
No balm, or true or false, for stings
Inflicted by Despair;
But still some new device will find
To torture more the suff'rer's mind.

V.

She, worm obscene, her form will roll
Beneath the rose-bed where he lies,
Or crawl from out the jovial bowl,
And coil before his eyes:
Or find him as he lies asleep,
That waking, he may wake to weep,
And chide the coming day:
A poisoned shaft once fix'd by her,
'Tis vain to soothe, 'tis pain to stir,
'Tis death to pluck away,
And ev'ry struggle, ev'ry start,
But sends it deeper to the heart.