From “Childe Harold,” Canto II.
  ’T IS night, when Meditation bids us feel
  We once have loved, though love is at an end:
  The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal,
  Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend.
  Who with the weight of years would wish to bend,
  When Youth itself survives young Love and joy?
  Alas! when...