Oh! may my bosom never learn
To soothe its wonted heedless flow;[1]
Still, still, despise the censor stern,
But ne'er forget another's woe.
Yes, as you knew me in the days,
O'er which Remembrance yet delays[2]
Still may I rove untutor'd, wild,
And even in age, at heart a child.[3]
Though, now, on airy visions borne,
To you my soul is still the same.
Oft has it been my fate to mourn,[4]
And all my former joys are tame:
But, hence! ye hours of sable hue!
Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er:
By every bliss my childhood knew,
I'll think upon your shade no more.
Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past,
And caves their sullen roar enclose,[5]
We heed no more the wintry blast,
When lull'd by zephyr to repose.
- ↑ —— its young romantic flow.—[MS. Newstead.]
- ↑ O'er which my fancy ——.—[MS. Newstead.]
- ↑
Still may my breast to boyhood cleave,
With every early passion heave;
Still may I rove untutored, wild,
But never cease to seem a child.—[MS. Newstead.] - ↑ Since we have met, I learnt to mourn.—[MS. Newstead.]
- ↑ And caves their sullen war ——.—[MS. Newstead.]
