Oh! many a time and oft, had Harold loved,

Or dreamed he loved, since Rapture is a dream;

But now his wayward bosom was unmoved,

For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream;

And lately had he learned with truth to deem

Love has no gift so grateful as his wings:

How fair, how young, how soft soe'er he seem,

Full from the fount of Joy's delicious springs[dg]

Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings. [16.B.]