81
And still, my Nymphs! ’twas not enough of pain such sorrow-clouds around my life should close; but they, for whom I sang the patriot-strain, with sad return must pay my toils, my throes: In place of Peace and Rest I hoped to gain, in lieu of Bay-wreaths bound around my brows, troubles by men unseen they must invent, when ills of every kind my soul torment.