The lay of an Irish harp | ||
174
FRAGMENT XLII. EFFUSION.
“Helas! il ne me reste de mes contentments
Qu'ne souvenir funesti
Qui me les convertit a toute héurs in tourments.”
Qu'ne souvenir funesti
Qui me les convertit a toute héurs in tourments.”
I
Return, ye fairy dreams of promis'd joy,My youthful fancy's flatt'ring pencil drew,
Nor suffer time your visions to destroy,
Nor strike the bright tints from my raptur'd view.
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II
Again, oh Hope! thy glowing prospects spread,Restore thy scenes so distant and so fair;
Oh! be each thought by thee, sweet syren, led,
And drown in fancied bliss each real care.
III
For what can “flat reality” bestow,E'en when illum'd by fortune's brightest beam,
To compensate those joys that sweetly flow
From youthful Hope, and youthful fancy's dream?
The lay of an Irish harp | ||