Prophecies, threats and apparitions,

The lively trash of stories long

Or letters of a maiden young.

XXXVI.

And by degrees upon him grew

A lethargy of sense, a trance,

And soon imagination threw

Before him her wild game of chance.

And now upon the snow in thaw

A young man motionless he saw,

As one who bivouacs afield,

And heard a voice cry - Why! He's killed! -

And now he views forgotten foes,

Poltroons and men of slanderous tongue,

Bevies of treacherous maidens young;

Of thankless friends the circle rose,

A mansion - by the window, see!

She sits alone - 'tis ever she!

XXXVII.

So frequently his mind would stray

He well-nigh lost the use of sense,

Almost became a poet say -

Oh! what had been his eminence!

Indeed, by force of magnetism

A Russian poem's mechanism

My scholar without aptitude

At this time almost understood.

How like a poet was my chum

When, sitting by his fire alone

Whilst cheerily the embers shone,

He "Benedetta" used to hum,

Or "Idol mio," and in the grate

Would lose his slippers or gazette.

XXXVIII.

Time flies! a genial air abroad,