Like a lone Arab, old and blind, 
 Some caravan had left behind,
 Who sits beside a ruin'd well,
 Where the shy sand-asps bask and swell;
 And now he hangs his ag{'e}d head aslant,
 And listens for a human sound--in vain!
 And now the aid, which Heaven alone can grant,
 Upturns his eyeless face from Heaven to gain;--
 Even thus, in vacant mood, one sultry hour,
 Resting my eye upon a drooping plant,
 With brow low-bent, within my garden-bower,
 I sate upon the couch of camomile;
 And--whether 'twas a transient sleep, perchance,
 Flitted across the idle brain, the while
 I watch'd the sickly calm with aimless scope,
 In my own heart; or that, indeed a trance,
 Turn'd my eye inward--thee, O genial Hope,
 Love's elder sister! thee did I behold
 Drest as a bridesmaid, but all pale and cold,
 With roseless cheek, all pale and cold and dim,
 Lie lifeless at my feet!
 And then came Love, a sylph in bridal trim,
 And stood beside my seat;
 She bent, and kiss'd her sister's lips,
 As she was wont to do;--
 Alas! 'twas but a chilling breath
 Woke just enough of life in death
 To make Hope die anew.