Where sang the Mocking-bird[3] his varied lay,
And Nonpareils among the leaves did play.
Bright buttercups along her path did bloom;
It seem’d not night—it seem’d refulgent day;
The flowers of memory, amid the gloom,
Were wafting o’er her soul their odorous perfume.
X.
O, Memory! thou skilful architect!
Thy handiwork doth ne’er offend the taste;
Thou hidest from the view each dark defect,