A wretched residue of life
Scarce to my wearied youth is left;
With wan exhaustion stamped, my face
Bears but the scathing thunder’s trace,
Whose bolt this frame of vigor reft.
Happy the bard insensible!
Unbathed with burning tears his lyre;
His fancy, ruled by peaceful will,
Feels not the touch of passion’s fire.
For him, a clear and grateful tide,