show Of my own bosom the mysterious depths. And when with soothing
beam, the moon's pale orb Full in my view climbs up the pathless sky, From
crag and dewy grove, the silvery forms Of by - gone ages hover, and assuage
The joy austere of contemplative thought.
Oh, that naught perfect is assign'd to man, I feel, alas! With this exalted joy,
Which lifts me near and nearer to the gods, Thou gav'st me this companion,
unto whom I needs must cling, though cold and insolent, He still degrades me
to myself, and turns Thy glorious gifts to nothing, with a breath. He in my