Lovelier than any muse is she who gives the fire!

No impulse I beseech; my strains are vile:

To escape thee, Nature, restless here I rove.

Look not so sweet on me, avert thy smile!

O cease at length this fever'd breast to move!

I have loved thee in vain; I cannot speak my love.

[31]

Here sense with apathy seems gently wed:

The gloom is starr'd with flowers; the unseen trees

Spread thick and softly real above my head;

And the far birds add music to the peace,

In this dark place of sleep, where whispers never cease.

Hush, then, my pipe; vain is thy passion here;

Vain is the burning bosom of desire!

Forever hush'd, let me this silence hear,

As a sad Muse in the melodious choir

Hushes her voice, to catch the happier voices by her.

Deep-shaded will I lie, and deeper yet

In night, where not a leaf its neighbour knows;

Forget the shining of the stars, forget

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