I ask’d the echoes, that recall the past,
I ask’d the thrilling voice of those who live,
I ask’d the forms that mother nature cast
And feeds within the mind, aye yet can give,
Must love be fostered by its own despair?
Must the mere shadow mark where we adored?
Must we be drunk even with the wanton air,
Because both breathe it;—and our hearts be gored?
Where lies the fault? even in this, replies
The voice of Wisdom; thrifty Nature lends
Rude sketches, undeveloped, which thy sighs,
Thy fancy, thought, or lonely pride pretends
To draw to their full scope; oft must thou err,
Even though successful, nature will not stir.