Why is my soul for pleasure dead, And yet alive to grief and care? Why doom’d in listless stupor laid This arid loathing still to bear? Why this consuming wild desire, This restless passion vague and strange? That well I know I rave, ’tis fire, Yet plunge in its deceitful range. Why do I dream of love and joy, That I am sure a lie will prove? Why where fantastic charms decoy, Will thus my heart delirious move, If soon it finds for meads and flowers, But arid wastes and tangled thorns, And soon a loathing rage o’erpowers The mad or mournful love it scorns? Flung as a rapid comet wide, On ardent fancy’s wings I flew, Where’er my wayward mind espied Or joys or triumphs to pursue. I launch’d myself, in daring flight, Beyond the world through heavenward space, And found but doubt, and all so bright That seem’d, illusive proved the chase. Then on the earth I anxious sought For virtue, glory, love sublime; And my worn spirit found there nought But fetid dust and loathsome slime. Mid clouds with heavenly hues o’ercast Women of virgin lustre shone; I saw, I touched them, and they pass’d, And smoke and ashes left alone. I found the illusion fled; but rife, Unquench’d desires their longings crave; I felt the real, I hated life, And peace believed but in the grave. And yet I seek, and anxious seek, For pleasures still I ask and sigh, And hear dread accents answering speak, “Unhappy one! despair, and die. “Die: Life is torment, joy a cheat, Hope not for good on earth for thee, But fruitless struggles look to meet In thy vain longings endlessly! For so God punishes the soul That in its madness dares espy The unfathom’d secrets of the scroll Of truth, denied to mortal eye!” * * * * * O! cease: no more I ask to know, No more to see: my soul oppress’d Is humbly bow’d, and prostrate low, Now only asks, and longs for rest. In me let feeling then lie dead, Since died my hopes of happiness, Nor joys nor griefs be o’er me spread My soul returning to depress. Pass, as in magic optic glass, And other youthful hearts deceive, Bright images of glory! pass, That crowns of gold and laurel weave. Pass, ye voluptuous fair ones, on! With dance and mirthful songs attuned, Like vaporous visions, pass, begone! No more my heart to move or wound. And let the dance, and festal din, O’er my revolted fancy reign, And fled the night, see morn begin, Surprised in senseless stupor’s chain.