Of endless grief, and love forsaken, pining?
What wert thou, thou whose woe
The old traditions show,
With Fame's cold light around thee vainly shining!
Did'st thou indeed sit there
In languid lone despair?
Thy harp neglected by thee idly lying?
Thy soft and earnest gaze,
Watching the lingering rays,
In the far west, where Summer-day was dying?