His strong, but fruitless effort to forget
Those scenes that wake deep sorrow in his breast;
And yet the quiet beauty of the grove
All plainly to his restless mind appears,
Where, as the sun declined, he lov’d to rove
With her, the first fond dream of early years.
He sees the stream, beside whose brink they strayed,
Engross’d in converse sweet of coming hours,
And watch’d the rippling currents as they played,
In ebb and flow, upon the banks of flowers: