Associations

As o'er these hills I take my silent rounds, Still on that vision which is flown I dwell, On images I loved, alas, too well! Now past, and but remembered like sweet sounds Of yesterday! Yet in my breast I keep Such recollections, painful though they seem, And hours of joy retrace, till from my dream I start, and find them not; then I could weep To think how Fortune blights the fairest flowers; To think how soon life's first endearments fail, And we are still misled by Hope's smooth tale, Who, like a flatterer, when the happiest hours Pass, and when most we call on her to stay, Will fly, as faithless and as fleet as they!