XI

3 0 00

XI

But sad is the reflection made,

In vain was youth by us received,

That we her constantly betrayed

And she at last hath us deceived;

That our desires which noblest seemed,

The purest of the dreams we dreamed,

Have one by one all withered grown

Like rotten leaves by Autumn strown⁠—

’Tis fearful to anticipate

Nought but of dinners a long row,

To look on life as on a show,

Eternally to imitate

The seemly crowd, partaking nought

Its passions and its modes of thought.