False shapes, the parasites of the hour,
Flit round, in impotence of power;
These, when Hope's buoyant yearnings are
A dower all care to drive afar,
Their various blandishments essay
Revelling in plenitude of sway.
Lo! when the gloom of autumn's shades
The atmosphere of life invades,
Where flock these birds of vagrant wing?
Fled to adorn some recent spring,
Their votary seeks in vain to trace
Their path through viewless realms of space:—
Himself in desolation of the mind
By all but Faith and Hope resigned.
Then claims his empire real love;
Sorrow but lures him to dominion:
The dove hath wings, but doth the dove
Desert his mate to prove his pinion?
XX.
Though social charms awhile may soothe
To short forgetfulness of truth,
