In the dark my grief increaseth;
A grimmer phantom grows my old remorse;
The shadowy finger never ceaseth
To trace its " Mene, Tekel's " bloody course.

My bosom, shaken by its weeping,
Is as a mountain sad and drear,
Where clouds are black illusions heaping;
Where dream is chill, and glory, fear.

What hand is there to undo the portal —
To blunt each thorn-point on a rose;
With peace at twilight, and the mortal
Bosom melted to a star that glows!