ODE TO DESPAIR.
61
And Memory draws from Pleasure's wither'd flower,
Corrosives for the heart—of fatal power!
I bid the traitor Love adieu!
Who to this fond believing bosom came
A guest insidious and untrue,
With Pity's soothing voice—in Friendship's name;
The wounds he gave, nor Time shall cure,
Nor Reason teach me to endure.
And to that breast mild Patience pleads in vain,
Which feels the curse—of meriting its pain.
Yet not to me, tremendous Power!
Thy worst of spirit-wounding pangs impart,
With which, in dark conviction's hour,
Thou strikest the guilty unrepentant heart;
But of Illusion long the sport,
That dreary, tranquil gloom I court,
Where my past errors I may still deplore,
And dream of long-lost happiness no more!
