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For that it was not dream'd of; worldliness Has crept upon his spirit unaware; Vanity craves for its accustom'd food; He has turn'd sceptic to the truth which made His feelings poetry; and discontent Hangs heavily on the lute, which wakes no more Its early music:—social life is fill'd With doubts and vain aspirings; solitude, When the imagination is dethroned, Is turn'd to weariness. What can he do But hang his lute on some lone tree, and die? "Methinks we must have known some former state More glorious than our present, and the heart Is haunted with dim memories, shadows left By past magnificence; and hence we pine With vain aspirings, hopes that fill the eyes