Like some mild lambent flame the passion plays;
And, vanquish’d by ideal charms,
I sink in the imagin’d arms
Of some sweet Phillis of my youthful days.
XVIII.
But, lo! the Portrait of yon hoary sage
From whose grave lore I learnt in youth
Many a rigid moral truth,
Frowns me again to cold unfeeling age---
How are the soft emotions checkt