Glories untasted I survey— 90
My heart is sick, my bosom cold,
Friends! neighbours! kindred! where are they,
In the sad, last, long, endless day:
When I can neither pray nor weep,
Doom’d o’er the sleeping world to stray,
And not to die, and not to sleep?
XIII.
Beside the summer sea I stand,
Where the slow billows swelling shine.