Then left I earthly sights, to wander
⁠Amid a grove of name divine,
Where bay-reflecting streams meander,
⁠And Moloch Fame hath rear'd a shrine.

Not green, but black, is that reflection;
⁠On rocky beds those waters lie;
That grove hath chilness and dejection.—
⁠How could I sing? I had to sigh.

Last, human Love, thy Lares greeting,
⁠To rest and warmth I vow'd my years.
To rest? how wild my pulse is beating!
⁠To warmth? ah me! my burning tears.

Ay! they may burn—though thou be frozen
⁠By death, and changes wint'ring on!
Fame—Beauty!—idols madly chosen—
⁠Were yet of gold; but thou art stone!