And speak in mockery of the glorious wreath,
Whose holiest resting place is in the grave;
Tell of the cold contempt that ever waits
On those who call on thee, and call in vain.—
All this I know and feel, most deeply feel,
How few the favour'd ones on whom thou breathest
The heart's aroma, immortality.
Yet still I love thee, passionately love!
Yet would I dwell on thy fair picturings,
Although thy brightest hues may be no more
Than tulip tints, that colour but to fade.
Sweet Spirit of the Harp! thou canst create
An airy world of beauty and delight,
Far from the chill realities of life,
Where sorrow closely follows pleasure's steps;
Rapture, companion of thy wanderings!
Still, thou enchanting power, my love is thine.—
But yet there is a dearer bliss, than dwells
E'en in these fond illusions;—ah! canst thou,
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