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!