Of life, have march'd to conquest, and no voice
Hath rais'd its cry against them!—Aye, but this
Might be, perchance, because the trumpet notes
Of victory, swelling like the tempest, drown'd
The moan of breaking hearts!—I never paus'd
On such a thought till now!—And hath it been
My crime, my ruin, that I would not pause
In mine uncheck'd career?—I will not think
Nature is round me, and is lovely still,
And will not mock my woes!—Oh, native groves!
Along whose grassy path and light arcades
My childhood bounded!—Founts, which, bright as then,
Are sparkling in the sun, and sending forth
Unchang'd your voices—whose wild cadence blends
With the deep whisper of the laurel-boughs,
And the glad bird-notes, and the wind's low sigh,
Through mine own bowers of citron!—Take ye back
The heart-sick wanderer to your solitudes,
And charm his spirit, if but for one still hour,
With all your mingling summer-melodies,
To brief forgetfulness