contents | previous | next Still love the scenes thy sportive pencil drew, When on mine eyes the early radiance broke Which shew'd the beautous, rather than the true! Alas! long since, those glowing tints are dead, And now 'tis thine in darkest hues to dress The spot where pale experience hangs her head O'er the sad grave of murder'd Happiness! Thro' thy false medium then no longer view'd, May fancy'd pain and fancy'd pleasure fly, And I, as from me all thy dreams depart, Be to my wayward destiny subdu'd; Nor seek perfection with a poet's eye, Nor suffer anguish with a poet's heart! |
