To Iaxthe

We once were happier; true; but were
Our happiest hours devoid of care?
Remains there nothing like the past,
But calmer and less overcast
By clouds no effort could dispel,
And hopes we neither dared to tell?
I wish that hand were earlier free
Which Love should have preserved for me.
Content, if sad, I must be now
With what the sparing Fates allow,
And feel, tho' once the hope seem'd vain,
There may be love that feels no pain.