Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/244

Rh

My task is ended; it may seem But vain regret for morning dream, To say how sad a look is cast Over the line we know the last. The weary hind at setting sun Rejoices over labour done, The hunter at the ended chase, The ship above its anchoring-place The pilgrim o'er his pilgrimage, The reader o'er the closing page; All, for end is to them repose. The poet's lot is not with those: His hour in Paradise is o'er; He stands on earth, and takes his share Of shallows closing round him more, The feverish hope, the freezing care;