Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/270

Rh

Telling soft tidings of eve's thousand flowers, Has it not been the transport of my lute To find its best delight in sympathy? Alas! the idols which our hopes set up, They are Chaldean ones, half gold, half clay; We trust, we are deceived, we hope, we fear, Alike without foundation; day by day Some new illusion is destroyed, and life Gets cold and colder on towards its close. Just like the years which make it, some are check'd By sudden blights in spring; some are dried up By fiery summers; others waste away In calm monotony of quiet skies, And peradventure these may be the best: They know no hurricanes, no floods that sweep As a God's vengeance were upon each wave;