(Grown hoary with one minute's age)
The very self-same fickle wave,
50Which the entrancing prospect gave,
Swoln to a mountain, sinks into a grave.
Too happy mortals, if the Powers above
As merciful would be,
And easy to preserve the thing we love,
As in the giving they are free!
But they too oft delude our wearied eyes,
They fix a flaming sword 'twixt us and Paradise!