The wonted trust, and Winter ticks no more.
Thus Adam, exil’d from the beauteous scene
Of Eden griev’d, no more in fragrant bower
On fruits divine to feast, fresh shade and vale
No more to visit, or vine-mantled grot;
But, all forlorn, the dreary wilderness
And unrejoicing solitudes to trace;
Thus too the matchless bard, whose lay resounds
The Splendid Shilling’s praise in nightly gloom
Of lonesome garret, pin’d for cheerful ALE;