I walk, I trust, with open eyes;I've travell'd half my worldly course;And in the way behind me liesMuch vanity and some remorse;I've lived to feel how pride may partSpirits, tho' match'd like hand and glove;I've blush'd for love's abode, the heart;But have not disbelieved in love;Nor unto love, sole mortal thingOf worth immortal, done the wrongTo count it, with the rest that sing,Unworthy of a serious song;And love is my reward; for now,When most of dead'ning time complain,The myrtle blooms upon my brow,Its odour quickens all my brain.