XXIX. WHY should I murmur at my lot forlorn? All, and much more, than is or has been borne Since what I grateful wish, in wishing ends. D VOL. I. XXX. WHAT can a poor man do but love and pray? The alms which drop upon the public way,- XXXI. WHAT is young Passion but a gusty breeze And fondest dreams full oft are types of sorrow, Eyes that can smile may weep just when they please. But adult Passion, centred far within, Hid from the moment's venom and its balm, Nor feels the joy of morn, nor evening calm: XXXII. FROM PETRARCA. "Solo e pensoso i piu deserti campi." LONELY and pensive o'er the lonely strand, 66 With wandering steps and slow," I loiter on, If mark of human foot impress the sand; And how I inly waste like smouldering brand. Which girds the small field on the mountain side XXXIII. THE vale of Tempe had in vain been fair, If heaven-born phantasy no more required, The mounting soul must heavenward prune her wings. |