Young knight, that broider'd cloak undo,
And break that golden chain in two;
Take from your hand its jewels fair,
Shear those bright curls of sunny hair,
And offer up at yonder shrine
All vanities that once were thine.
No more the victor of the ring,
Thy triumphs will the minstrel sing;
No more upon thy helm the glove
Will ask of fame to sanction love.
The saraband untrod must be,
The lists, the dance are closed for thee.
Look to the past—if present there
Be visible one great despair:
Look to the future—if it give
Nothing which charmeth thee to live.
Then come—the present knows its doom ,
Thy heart already is a tomb.
Thy cheek is pale—thy brow is worn—
Thy lip is bitter in its scorn.
I read in them the signs that tell
The heart's impassion'd chronicle.
'Tis past!—and Malta's iron vow
To thee is less than nothing now.