Joy like our southern sun. It is not well,
If some dark thought be gathering o’er your soul,
To hide it from affection. Why is this?
My Raimond, why is this?
Raim. Oh! from the dreams
Of youth, sweet Constance, hath not manhood still
A wild and stormy wakening? They depart—
Light after light, our glorious visions fade,
The vaguely beautiful! till earth, unveil’d,
Lies pale around; and life’s realities