Thou always were a Masker bold—
What quaint Disguise hast now put on?
To make believe that thou art gone! 30
O Youth, so true, so fair, so free,
Thy Vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd,
Thou always, &c.
Ah! was it not enough, that Thou
In Thy eternal Glory should outgo me? 35
Would'st thou not Grief's sad Victory allow
* * * * *
Hope's a Breeze that robs the Blossoms
Fancy feeds, and murmurs the Bee——
* * * * *
MS. II
1
| | Verse, that Breeze mid blossoms straying
Where Hope clings feeding like a Bee.
Both were mine: Life went a Maying
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
When I was young.
When I was young! ah woeful When!
Ah for the Change twixt now and then!
This House of Life, not built with hands
Where now I sigh, where once I sung. |
| Or | [This snail-like House, not built with hands,
This Body that does me grievous wrong.] |
| | O'er Hill and dale and sounding Sands.
How lightly then it flash'd along—
Like those trim Boats, unknown of yore,
On Winding Lakes and Rivers wide,
That ask no aid of Sail or Oar,
That fear no spite of Wind or Tide. |
| Pencil | | Nought car'd this Body for wind or weather,
When youth and I liv'd in't together. |
