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CXVI. The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled With thine Elysian water - drops; the face Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years unwrinkled, Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place, Whose green, wild margin now no more erase Art's works; nor must the delicate waters sleep, Prison'd in marble, bubbling from thic base or the cleft statue, with a gentle leap The rill runs o’er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy,
CXVII. Fantastically tangled; the green hills Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills Of summer- birds sing welcome as ye pass; Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class, Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass; The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes, Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems colour'd by
CXVIII. Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, Egeria! thy all heavenly bosom beating For the far fotsteps of thy mortal lover; The purple Midnight veil'd that mystic meeting With her most starry canopy, and seating Thyself by thine adorer, what befel? This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting Of an enamour'd Goddess, and the cell Haunted by holy Love - the earliest oracle!
CXIX. And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying, Blend a celestial with a human heart, And Love, which dies as it was born, in sighing, Share with immortal transports ? could thine art Make them indeed immortal, and impart The purity of heaven to earthly joys, Expel the venom and not blunt the dart The dull satiety which all destroys And root from out the soul the deadly weed which
Alas! our young affections run to waste,
Oh Love! no habitant of earth thou art -
And to a thought such shape and image given,
Of its own beauty is the mind diseased,
Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized?
Where are the charms and virtues which we dare
Who loves, raves-'tis youth's frenzy-but the cure
Seems ever near the prize,
wealthiest when most
We wither from our youth, we gasp away.
Though to the last, in verge of our decay,
And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame.
find what they love or could have loved,
Though accident, blind contact, and the strong
Whose touch turns Hope to dust,—the dust we all have trod.