Prophetic chance! the lines are gone,
And I must mourn o'er what I doted on:
I find even Giotto's circle has not all perfection.
V.
To Poetry I then inclin'd;
Verse that emancipates the mind,
Verse that unbends the soul;
That amulet of sickly fame,
80Verse that from wind articulates a name;
Verse for both fortunes fit, to smile and to condole.