From them the heart to solitude
Recoils in silent grief to brood
O'er passions dead and pleasures fled;
Would we could grieve their flight alone!
Alas! when keen-eyed Hope hath flown
(Our herald once to realms unknown),
When smiling Joy his station quits,
There Care in grinning mockery sits.
Reversion sad! at Hope's command
'Twas bliss to image forth a brighter land.
But, bound in Memory's fast-compelling thrall
E'en while we loathe, the frenzying cup we drink,
Helot-like, shuddering on the act to think
That conjures to our mind's distempered sight
The melancholy ghosts of past delight,
The ruthless denizens of reflection's night;
Night which can make time past a settled gloom,
Past joys a curse, and Memory but their tomb.
Alas! in such a world, where all is frail,
What lot must aye be ours but to bewail?
END OF CANTO I.
