And, shall it be, that who have stol’n ambrosia,
From the aerial palaces of the gods,
Or, like faint flowers, flush’d to the morning rosier,
Touch’d by the mesmerism of the sunbeams’ rods—
Shall such commend their spring to dungeon walls,
Catching no comfort from the dull reflex,
Responsive, breathe to no melodious calls?
But feed on hope, insidious to perplex.
How doubly dark frowns the removed cold spot,
Lumber’d with shadows from the journeying sun;
How trebly cursed, that unpropitious lot,
Whose scale descends from whence its joys begun:
And such is mine, whose starting-point was bliss;
Yet all life’s rounds but lead me more amiss.