Classic Poem

This life is but a horrid dream
To those who squander it like me,
In wild excess and mad extreme,
Mock joy and sad festivity!
Rather than wake to laugh and rave,
Or toss in such distempered sleep,
I would that I were in my grave,
So there were none my fate to weep!

Yet I who wither and repine
Am envied by a glittering throng,
And there are hearts wrapped up in mine
By ties too sacred far for song.
Intense in all things—Love or Grief—
Rage—Pride—Joy—Hatred or Disdain,
O! not to feel were some relief
From this vicissitude of pain!

Yet I endure and shrink not—I
Have done with Hope and Joy and Fear,
The torrent of my heart is dry,
My burning eyes have not a tear.
Come Genius! see thy torments! come!—
View Fate, the tortures of thy slave!
But mark ye! his despair is dumb
Your power he yet can scorn and brave!