Discovers, ere the questing eye can see
Thine unforgiving years upon thee trac'd,
Or mourn the sacred ruin that was thee.
Yet, though the world regret thy fleeting day,
And ponder on its hours, unnumber'd, brief,
I find no sorrows come my heart to weigh,
Nor bow my head beneath their load of grief.
What's fallen, that my sonnet cannot raise?
What lost, that cannot find the world anew?
Eternal odes if writ to speak thy praise,
What pow'r shall keep thee hid from mortal view?
But let me raise to thee this simple air:
The vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear.
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