And circling times of joy and balmy rest. 
    New day and night were poised in even scale,
    And spring awoke her equinoctial gale,
    And Progne now and Philomel begun
    With genial toils to greet the vernal sun. 
    Just then—­O hapless mortals! that rely
    On fickle fortune’s ever-changing sky—­
    E’en in that season, when, with sacred fire,
    Dan Cupid seem’d his subjects to inspire,
    That warms the heart, and kindles in the look,
    And all beneath the moon obey his yoke—­
    I saw the sad reverse that lovers own,
    I heard the slaves beneath their bondage groan;
    I saw them sink beneath the deadly weight
    And the long tortures that forerun their fate. 
    Sad disappointments there in meagre forms
    Were seen, and feverish dreams, and fancied harms;
    And fantoms rising from the yawning tomb
    Were seen to muster in the gathering gloom
    Around the car; and some were seen to climb,
    While cruel fate reversed their steps sublime. 
    And empty notions in the port were seen,
    And baffled hopes were there with cloudy mien. 
    There was expensive gain, and gain that lost,
    And amorous schemes by fortune’s favour cross’d;
    And wearisome repose, and cares that slept. 
    There was the semblance of disgrace, that kept
    The youth from dire mischance on whom it fell,
    And glory darken’d on the gloom of hell;
    Perfidious loyalty, and honest fraud,
    And wisdom slow, and headlong thirst of blood;
    The dungeon, where the flowery paths decoy;
    The painful, hard escape, with long annoy. 
    I saw the smooth descent the foot betray,
    And the steep rocky path that leads again to day. 
    There in the gloomy gulf confusion storm’d,
    And moody rage its wildest freaks perform’d;
    And settled grief was there; and solid night,
    But rarely broke with fitful gleams of light
    From joy’s fantastic hand.  Not Vulcan’s forge,
    When his Cyclopean caves the fumes disgorge;
    Nor the deep mine of Mongibel, that throws
    The fiery tempest o’er eternal snows;
    Nor Lipari, whose strong sulphureous blast
    O’ercanopies with flames the watery waste;
    Nor Stromboli, that sweeps the glowing sky
    With red combustion, with its rage could vie.—­
    Little he loves himself that ventures there,
    For there is ceaseless woe and fell despair: 
    Yet, in this dolorous dungeon long confined,
    Till time had grizzled o’er my locks, I pined. 
    There, dreaming still of liberty to come,
    I spent my summers in this noisome gloom;
    Yet still a dubious joy my grief controll’d,
    To spy such numbers in that darksome hold. 
    But soon to gall my seeming transport turn’d,
    And my illustrious partner’s fate I mourn’d;
    And often seem’d, with sympathising woe,