Memory

O camp of flowers, with poplars girdled round, The guardians of life's soft and purple bud! O silver spring, beside whose brimming flood My dreaming childhood its Elysium found! O happy hours with love and fancy crowned, Whose horn of plenty flatteringly subdued My heart into a trance, whence, with a rude And horrid blast, fate came my soul to hound: Who was the goddess who empowered you all Thus to bewitch me? Out of wasting snow And lily-leaves her headdress should be made! Weep, my poor lute! nor on Astræa call. She will not smile, nor I, who mourn below, Till I, a shade in heaven, clasp her, a shade.