Its course is changed, and so for aye shall be
The tenor of thy life; and anxious cares,
And fruitless wishes, springing without hope,
Shall rankle round thy heart, like those foul weeds
Which now grow thick where flow'rets bloomed anew:—
Like to that spring, thy fount of joy is dry!"
LINES
From the Italian of Scipione Maffèi[1]