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42 Of these loved soothings this the loved retreat Must now no more with dreams of bliss decoy; Yet here he liken still himself to meet, Though woes, a gloomy train, his thoughts employ: Oh lost to peace, he sighs, unhappy Boy! Oh lost to every worth that life adorns!— Oh lost to peace, to elegance, and joy! Th' aërial Genius of the cave returns, Whiles in the bubbling rill the plaintive Naiade mourns.

Thus as he spake the magic lawnskepe rose, The dell, the grotto, and the broome-clad hill; See, quoth the Wizard, where the Knight bestows An houre to thought and Reasons whispers still; Whiles, as a nightly vision boding ill, Seen with pale glymps by lonely wandering swayne, , gleaming through the fogs of biast will, Frowns on him sterne, and honest gins fayne In her reflective glass his life's ignoble straine.