But, pausing o’er the relics of past days,
A deadlier mischief strikes my bosom chill:
No more, alas! no more, my bosom sways
With joys, fresh-flowing from the heaven-capt hill;
No more, the quickening pulses of the world
May teach my soul to madden with its joy;
No more, its echoes, all confus’dly whirl’d,
O’erpower the troubling of each weak annoy:
’Tis past; the voice is silent, and if now
A quiet bliss steals o’er declining years;
’Tis but, that reason smooths the rugged brow,
Kissing the sources of uncertain tears:
The cup of rapture’s equal lent to all,
Drink once of bliss, and poor content must pall.