The hallow’d joys of friendship’s shrine;
Insensate to her gentle call,
The heart that own’d her power divine.
The bright illusive hopes that charm’d
My soul—all glide in clouds away;
No more this heart with rapture warm’d,
Shall bless the beam of rising day.
Nor dewy eve, nor Cynthia’s light,
Reflected on the gliding wave,
Nor spring’s sweet buds, nor flow’rets bright,