The trophies I've won are more durable far,
Than the splendour which glitters round victory's car;
Long ages to come, will remember my strain;
Oh! when will a harp, like to mine, wake again!
Indeed, cried the god, I half grieve to dispel
Illusions, which now seem to please you so well;
But know, my fair maiden, your well belov'd youth
Has wedded another,—great proof of his truth:
And, father, instead of regretting your fate,
Your children, at law squabble for your estate;
Your wife seems to think you no very great loss,
For, as you grew old, you grew stingy and cross.
And, general, already your laurels decay—
Fresh wreaths are adorning the chief of the day:
And you, my fine poet, who thought that the earth
To another such minstrel could never give birth,
