CANTO II.
Once more my harp awakens; once again,
Tho' all unworthy be my hand to twine
Th' etherial blossomings of poetry,
I would call forth its numbers, yet would feel
Its music fall like sunlight on my soul.
Oh, lovely phantom! tho' they say that thou
Art but a light to lead my steps aside;
That thy romance is but a wayward dream;
That few are thy true votaries, and they
Drain to the dregs the cup of bitterness;
