How happy men! in honor's strife They burst the chains of hated life. _We_ hope no solace from the throng; Our torture is to bear, Stirless and mute, a lone life long, The presence of Despair. Sometimes, when listing music's tone, It tells of powers so late mine own, Song, dance, and poesie--I start, As I could fly from this sad heart, To joy again; a sudden chill Reminds me that the world would say, "Back, lingering ghost! it fits thee ill To brave the living, and the day!" I wish I now could find a spell 'Gainst misery in the crowd: 'twas well To mix there once, lest solitude Should bear my thoughts too far through fate, My mind grew flexible, imbued With gay impressions; 'tis too late; Features and feelings fix for aye: Smiles, fancies, graces! where are they? Ah! if't were in a moment o'er, Fain would I taste of hope once more! But all is done: life can but be A burning desert now to me; The drop of water, like the river, Sullied with bitterness forever, A single day's enjoyment is Impossible, as years of bliss. Guilty towards me as I must deem My love--compared with other men What mindless things of art they seem! How does he rise an angel then!-- E'en though his sword of flame consume My life, and devastate my doom; Heaven lends the one beloved his power Thus to avenge each misspent hour. 'Tis not first love that must endure; It springs but from the dreams of youth; But if, with intellect mature, We meet the mind long sought in vain, Fancy is then subdued by truth, And we have _reason_ to complain. "What maniacs!" the many cry, "Are those for love who live or die! As if, when such frail boon is reft, A thousand blessings were not left!" Enthusiasm, though the seed Of every high heroic deed, Each pious sacrifice--its lot Is scorn, from those who feel it not. All then is folly, if they will, Save their own selfish care Of mortal life; this nobler thrill Is madness everywhere. Alas! it is my worst distress That _he_ alone my thoughts could guess; Too late and vainly may he find That I alone could read _his_ mind. Mine own should thus be understood; In friendship's varying degrees Easy, yet difficult to please: With cordial hours for all the good, But with affection deep and true, Which but for _one_, for _him_ I knew.