I.

I F life were but a bitter cup,
 'Twere but to drink, and all were o'er,
But (strange affection!) every sup
 Tho' poison, makes us long for more:
And still we drink, nor thought afford
 The fever that consumes us fast,
And linger o'er the dregs, and hoard
 That drop because it is the last.

II.

There is a feeling strong and proud,
 That clings to all we wish away;
'Tis like the suffrage of the croud,
 That all despise and all obey;
And fetters we might instant break,
 We hug and will not end our fears,
For every rattling sound they make,
 Is more than music to our ears.

III.

Life is a fair, nay, charming form,
 Of nameless grace and tempting sweets,
But disappointment is the worm
 That cankers every bud she meets;
And when she finds a flower, the chief
 Of others, more divine, more fair,
She crawls upon its loveliest leaf,
 And feeds and breeds and riots there.

IV.

O heart! it is a sad employ,
 The flowers we dare not cull to count,
From deserts gaze at fields of joy,
 Barred from approach by main and mount;
To dream of bliss to come or past,
 Of cheerful hearths and peopled halls,
Then wake and hear the hollow blast,
 Moan mournful through the ruined walls.