Canto XXXVIII

With weary steps I loiter on,

      Tho' always under alter'd skies

      The purple from the distance dies,

My prospect and horizon gone.

No joy the blowing season gives,

      The herald melodies of spring,

      But in the songs I love to sing

A doubtful gleam of solace lives.

If any care for what is here

      Survive in spirits render'd free,

      Then are these songs I sing of thee

Not all ungrateful to thine ear.