LXXXII.

Oh! many a time and oft, had Harold loved, Or dreamed he loved, since Rapture is a dream; But now his wayward bosom was unmoved, For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream; And lately had he learned with truth to deem Love has no gift so grateful as his wings: How fair, how young, how soft soe'er he seem, Full from the fount of Joy's delicious springs[dg] Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.[16.B.]