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XXIII.

But, pausing o’er the relics of past days,

A deadlier mischief strikes my bosom chill:

No more, alas! no more, my bosom sways

With joys, fresh-flowing from the heaven-capt hill;

No more, the quickening pulses of the world

May teach my soul to madden with its joy;

No more, its echoes, all confus’dly whirl’d,

O’erpower the troubling of each weak annoy:

’Tis past; the voice is silent, and if now

A quiet bliss steals o’er declining years;

’Tis but, that reason smooths the rugged brow,

Kissing the sources of uncertain tears:

The cup of rapture’s equal lent to all,

Drink once of bliss, and poor content must pall.

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XXIV.

And in this stream thy youthful limbs were borne,

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