No more may I its sparkling glories view!
No more its piercing lustre meet my eye!
On night's black wings my only comfort flew;
At breath of morn I sicken and I die.

Where can I fly? In what sequester'd clime
Does darkness ever hold her ebon reign?
Where woeful dirges measure out the time,
And endless echoes breathe the sullen strain.

Where dreary mountains rear their low'ring heads,
To pierce the heavy and umbrageous clouds;
And where the cavern dewy moisture sheds,
And night's thick veil the guilty mourner shrouds.

There, lost in horrors, I might vent my sighs;
To open misery myself resign;
Might snatch each torturing vision ere it flies,
And feast on prospects desolate as mine.

Oh! let me thither quickly take my flight,
And chuse a favourite and a final seat,
In scenes which would each gentler mind affright,
But for my guilt affords a fit retreat.

There, where no ray, no gleam of light could come,
There, and there only, could I find relief;
There might I ruminate on Edward's doom,
And lose myself in luxury of grief.