O, surely, I should find my heaven here!
But something tells me there is sorrow near;
Some sad foreboding weighs my spirit down;
And, ere I know it, fast th’ unbidden tear
Springs to my eye. Ev’n nature seems to frown;
The moon has hid herself—the chill night breezes moan.
XVII.
O, why does my imagination thus
Run riot in a world of fancied woes?
Why do I brood o’er dangers perilous,