With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, wherever nature led.
Prompt to move but firm to wait - knowing things rashly sought are rarely found.
Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.
Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.
As generations come and go, Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow; Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, And feeble, of themselves, decay.