And where sweet fragrance wing'd the balmy morn. When the wild thought roved vision's circuit o'er, 250 And caught the raptures, caught, alas! no more: No care did then a dull attention ask, For study pleased, and that was every task; No guilty dreams stalk'd that heaven-favour'd round, Heaven-guarded too; no Envy entrance found; Nor numerous wants, that vex advancing age, Nor Flattery's silver'd tale, nor Sorrow's sage; Frugal Affliction kept each growing dart, T' o'erwhelm in future days the bleeding heart. No sceptic art veil'd Pride in Truth's disguise, 260 But prayer, unsoil'd of doubt, besieged the skies; Ambition, avarice, care, to man retired, Nor came desires more quick, than joys desired. A summer morn there was, and passing fair; Still was the breeze, and health perfumed the air; The glowing east in crimson'd splendour shone, What time the eye just marks the pallid moon; Vi'let-wing'd Zephyr fann'd each opening flower, And brush'd from fragrant cups the limpid shower; A distant huntsman fill'd his cheerful horn, 270 } The vivid dew hung trembling on the thorn, } And mists, like creeping rocks, arose to meet the morn. } Huge giant shadows spread along the plain, Or shot from towering rocks o'er half the main. There to the slumbering bark the gentle tide Stole soft, and faintly beat against its side; Such is that sound, which fond designs convey, When, true to love, the damsel speeds away; The sails, unshaken, hung aloft unfurl'd, And, simpering nigh, the languid current curl'd; 280 A crumbling ruin, once a city's pride, The well-pleased eye through withering oaks descried, Where Sadness, gazing on time's ravage, hung, And Silence to Destruction's trophy clung-- Save that, as morning songsters swell'd their lays, Awaken'd Echo humm'd repeated praise. The lark on quavering pinion woo'd the day, } Less towering linnets fill'd the vocal spray, } And song-invited pilgrims rose to pray. } Here at a pine-prest hill's embroider'd base 290 I stood, and hail'd the Genius of the place. Then was it doom'd by fate, my idle heart, Soften'd by Nature, gave access to Art; The Muse approach'd, her syren-song I heard, Her magic felt, and all her charms revered: E'er since she rules in absolute control, And Mira only dearer to my soul. Ah! tell me not these empty joys to fly; If they deceive, I would deluded die; To the fond themes my heart so early wed, 300 So soon in life to blooming visions led, So prone to run the vague uncertain course-- 'Tis more than death to think of a divorce.