LXX.

O thou glad phantom of my waking hours,

I will not clasp thee, lest the vision fail;

I only, sometimes, wander o’er the flowers

Whose perfume lingers in my summer’s vale:

Whether joy’s victorious, when I oft recount

The former kisses of indulgent Time;

Or the sad Present fathoms sorrow’s fount,

And bids my eyes assist my bosom’s chime;

I yet will fashion pleasure from each mood,

Shaming the Present with the Past’s record,

And gather strength, from memory’s darling brood,

To temper, and to wield the eventful sword:

Thy aid delightful seems, for thy dear sake,

And I shall seem to give, even what I take.

{71}

{71}

LXXI.

What is more lovely than to celebrate

That Beauty’s virtue we can never reach?

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