No summer breeze has fann'd, might still be patient,—
Did not remembrance, yoked with cursed comparison,
Enter his dungeon walls, and conjure up
The shadows of past joys;—then, thought on thought,
Like molten lead, run thro' the wretch's brain,
And burning fancy mads him.—Hence, Remembrance!
How baneful art thou to me, when this course
Must be thy antidote! I'll thro' the forest,
And seek these wanderers.—Fell necessity,
And the rude band that I am link'd withal,