But what shall sighs avail thee? thy poor heart,
’Mid all the “pomp and circumstance” of state,
Shivers in nakedness. Unbidden, start
Sad recollections of Hope’s garish dream,
That shap’d a seraph form, and nam’d it Love,
Its hues gay-varying, as the orient beam
Varies the neck of Cytherea’s dove.
To one soft accent of domestic joy,
Poor are the shouts that shake the high-arch’d dome;
Those plaudits, that thy public path annoy,