In me let feeling then lie dead,
Since died my hopes of happiness,
Nor joys nor griefs be o’er me spread
My soul returning to depress.
Pass, as in magic optic glass,
And other youthful hearts deceive,
Bright images of glory! pass,
That crowns of gold and laurel weave.
Pass, ye voluptuous fair ones, on!
With dance and mirthful songs attuned,