xviii.
O lost Occasion! what a thing art thou:—
A three-fold key,—the when, the where, the how,—
The past, the present and the future tense,—
All thrown aside. For what? A witless sense
Of some compunction! When the hour is bold
Reason is shy, and rapture, seeming-cold,
Makes mute surrender of its dearest chance,
And all for fear of doubts that might be told.