⁠The hard-fought field I won;
The prize, a laurel-wreath, was bound
⁠My throbbing forehead on.

Low at my master's knee I bent,
⁠The offered crown to meet;
Its green leaves through my temples sent
⁠A thrill as wild as sweet.

The strong pulse of Ambition struck
⁠In every vein I owned;
At the same instant, bleeding broke
⁠A secret, inward wound.

The hour of triumph was to me
⁠The hour of sorrow sore;
A day hence I must cross the sea,
⁠Ne'er to recross it more.

An hour hence, in my master's room,
⁠I with him sat alone,
And told him what a dreary gloom
⁠O'er joy had parting thrown.