 | Bertram |  |
TO THE DEPARTED SPIRIT OF BERTRAM.
Stretch'd on a bank, how oft thy pensive mindTo dear delusions all its force resign'd;
Dream'd, ere seduc'd by Glory's call to wage
Amid severer woes the battle's rage,
For thee the Future was but fairy ground,
And Sylphs for thee the' untarnish'd chaplet bound.
On tales of heroes and of bards to pore,
And lose reality in Fancy's lore,
Form'd of thine early youth the prime delight,
While the Muse round thee shed her rainbow-light.
But, ah! that Future, on whose raptur'd days
Hope hung sweet visions of ideal blaze,
In mingled clouds each drearier evening set;
Then sunk in storms of sorrow and regret.
| Bertram | |