There are few on whom Fortune in one form or other,
So various and numberless, never hath smiled;
One fountain the sands of the desert may cover,
Another shall rise in the rocks of the wild.
We leave the bright lotus that floats on our river
And the narrow green margin where youth hath reposed.
Fate drives us; we sigh, but sigh vainly, that ever
Our eyes in a slumber less sweet should be closed:
Ah! while it comes over us let us assemble
What once were not visions, but visions are now,
Now love shall not torture, now hope shall not tremble,
And the last leaf of myrtle still dings to the brow.