194 
The cataract of thought, 
Which rushed along my troubled soul, 
Reason has wisely brought 
At length within her firm control; 
Experience has been bought. 
Ambition, like a bird, 
Would softly fold her weary wings, 
And seldom now are heard 
Her notes by me, if still she sings 
The strain which erst she poured. 
The tranquil, not the sad, 
Has wooed me from the dreams I loved; 
When in life’s morning glad, 
With all her fairy scenes unproved,— 
Then dreams of fame I had. 
