The heart’s-ease dies when it is laid on mine;
Methinks there is no shape by Joy possess’d,
Would better fare than thou, upon that shrine.
“Take from me things gone by—oh! change the past—
Renew the lost—restore me the decay’d,—
Bring back the days whose tide has ebb’d so fast—
Give form again to the fantastic shade!
“My hope, that never grew to certainty,—
My youth, that perish’d in its vain desire,—
My fond ambition, crush’d ere it could be