Glory and loveliness have pass’d away; For if we wander ont in early morn, No wreathèd incense do we see upborne Into the east, to meet the smiling day: No crowd of nymphs soft-voic’d and young, and gay, In woven baskets bringing ears of corn, Roses, and pinks, and violets, to adorn The shrine of Flora in her early May. But there are left delights as high as these, And I shall ever bless my destiny, That in a time, when under pleasant trees Pan is no longer sought, I feel a free, A leafy luxury, seeing I could please With these poor offerings, a man like thee.