When bright romance the ’witching harp has strung 355
And o’er the bard her robe of glamour flung.
But now—’tis not from fiction’s flow’ry urn
The cup I fill! To truth’s pure stream I turn;
For Wanstead! thy embowering shades amid,
’Wake dearer feelings, deeper thoughts lie hid! 360
It may be from my chosen theme I stray,
On friendship’s shrine a votive wreath to lay;
A wreath unworthy of a shrine so dear,
And placed, perhaps, with failing courage here.