She dwelt within this master-piece of art 255
With blighted visions—and a breaking heart.
Turned on its pomps a faint accusing eye,
And asked—and vainly asked—in peace to die.
Come, from this scene so desolately fair,
Where through “the Grove”[[5]] soft plays the summer air; 260
And wooingly the sun with ev’ry breeze
Kisses the glad leaves of the whisp’ring trees;
Gilding their trunks, and on each dewy spray
Hanging a gem that sparkles in his ray.