Speak to me! speak! that I may know I am thus happy!—dearest, speak! 130 Those smiles that haunt fond memory show! Joy makes us doubtful, wavering, weak; But yet ’tis joy—And all I seek Is mine! What glorious day is this! Now let me bear with spirit meek An hour of pure and perfect bliss. XVIII. But do ye look indeed as friends? Is there no change? Are [ye not] cold? Oh! I do dread that Fortune lends Fictitious good!—that I behold, 140 To lose, these treasures, which of old Were all my glory, all my pride: May not these arms that form infold? Is all affection asks denied? XIX. Say, what is this?—How are we tried In this sad world!—I know not these— All strangers, none to me allied— Those aspects blood and spirit freeze: Dear forms, my wandering judgment spare; And thou, most dear, these fiends disarm, 150 Resume thy wonted looks and air, And break this melancholy charm! XX. And are they vanish’d? Is she lost? Shall never day that form restore? Oh! I am all by fears engross’d; Sad truth has broken in once more, And I the brief delight deplore. How durst they such resemblance take? Heavens! with what grace the mask they wore! Oh, from what visions I awake! 160 XXI. Once more, once more upon the shore! Now back the rolling ocean flows: The rocky bed now far before On the receding water grows— The treasures and the wealth it owes To human misery—all in view; Fate all on me at once bestows, From thousands robb’d and murder’d too. XXII. But, lo! whatever I can find Grows mean and worthless as I view: 170 They promise, but they cheat the mind, As promises are born to do. How lovely every form and hue, Till seized and master’d—Then arise, For all that admiration drew, All that our senses can despise! XXIII. Within the basis of a tower, I saw a plant—it graced the spot; There was within nor wind nor shower, And this had life that flowers have not. 180 I drew it forth—Ah, luckless lot! It was the mandrake; and the sound Of anguish deeply smother’d shot Into my breast with pang profound. XXIV. “I would I were a soaring bird,” Said Folly, “and I then would fly.” Some mocking Muse or Fairy heard— “You can but fall—suppose you try! And, though you may not mount the sky, You will not grovel in the mire.” 190 Hail, words of comfort! Now can I Spurn earth, and to the air aspire. XXV.