I came — but soon the phantoms disappear'd;
Far other scenes, than wanton Hope had rear'd;
No faery rites, no funeral pomp I found;
No trophied walls with wreaths of laurel round:
A mean unhonour'd ruin faintly show'd
The spot where once thy mausoleum stood:
Hardly the form remain'd; a nodding dome
O'ergrown with moss is now all Virgil's tomb.
'Twas such a scene as gave a kind relief
To memory, in sweetly-pensive grief:
Gloomy, unpleasing images it wrought;
No musing, soft complacency of thought:
For Time had canker'd all, and worn away
Ev'n the last, mournful graces of decay:
Oblivion, hateful goddess, sate before,
And cover'd with her dusky wings the door:
No silver harps I heard, no Muse's voice,
But birds obscene in horrid notes rejoice:
Fancy recoil'd, and with his tinsel train,
Forsook the chearless scene; no more remain
The warm ambitious hopes of airy youth;
Severe Reflection came, and frowning Truth:
Away each glitt'ring gay idea fled,
And bade a melancholy train succeed,
That form'd, or seem'd to form, a mournful call
In feeble echoes mutt'ring round the wall.