“Her friends had one after one departed, and in her mind continually rang the monotonous words, alone, alone!”
I am alone, oh God! alone—alone! Yet thousands round me crowd life’s busy mart, Whose ceaseless hum is as a deathless moan Forever falling on my weary heart— I am alone!
I am alone—around me press the gay, The light of heart, they who have never known The blight of sorrow, or the sure decay Of every joy the spirit here has known— I am alone!
I am alone—yet memory oft doth bring Back the sweet visions of life’s sunny day, Of friends unchanged, who in my early spring With smiles of love illumed my joyous way— I am alone!
I am alone—alas! stern death has won Hearts that I cherished, and fond eyes of light; Kind tones are hushed, and brows I gazed upon In life’s full glory greet no more my sight— I am alone!
Alone—alone!—for unto me no more The living turn with thought or feeling’s flow. And joy for me I feel on earth is o’er— I never more shall love or friendship know— I am alone!
Alone and weary, yet I strive to wear Ever a look of calm, serene repose, And smiling seek to hide each galling care And burning sorrow which my spirit knows— I am alone!
I am alone—and far, oh! far away From where my home of happy childhood lies, From scenes beloved where fountains murmuring play And smile beneath my own, my native skies— I am alone!
Alone—alone!—and my crushed heart doth bear Cold and neglect from those for whom I pour My full soul forth—whose images I wear Forever shrined in memory’s sacred store— I am alone!
I am alone, but in my fevered dreams Friends throng around me—voices loved I hear. Light once again upon my pathway beams, But I awake!—no forms beloved are near— I am alone!
Alone—alone!—no more the star I see Of Hope which once illumed my cloudless sky. And naught is left on this wide earth to me, Save but to look on Nature’s face and die— I am alone!
Meanwhile, the Marquis of Santa-Cruz with a hundred sail was steering from Lisbon to Tercera, bent upon reaching that island before the French fleet, and moreover settling it in his own mind to hang the Viceroy de Torrevedros, (who was at that moment taking wine with De Chaste to their mutual longevity,) for sticking to the landless and luckless King Anthony of Portugal, in preference to his own master Philip the Second, sometimes called the Prudent, but by the Protestants, whom he roasted and otherwise ill-treated, the Demon of the South.