Chapter XXVIII

When, all unswayed by passion, or by thought,
When love nor care disturb’d thy even breast,
How dropp’d the golden words, with wisdom fraught,
Like the light flashing on Athena’s crest!
Here, by this stream, that wantons by this willow,
(By such a stream, the sage beguiled the day,
Wooing with mellifluous words the crisping billow,)
Thy sweetest art compels the grave to gay;
Ah! me, the words have lost the charm they ow’d
To disposition, nature, eloquence, tone;
The gesture, that from o’erwrought feeling flow’d,
The music of the voice, is all thine own;
And the poor tenement of a troubled brain
Confuses all, and cannot much retain.