One sad and sole relief she knows, The sting she nourished for her foes, Whose venom never yet was vain, Gives but one pang and cures all pain, And darts into her desperate brain; So do the dark in soul expire, Or live like scorpion girt by fire; So writhes the mind remorse hath driven, Unfit for earth, undoomed for heaven, Darkness above, despair beneath, Around it flame, within it death.
Byhon.
To-mohrow. How sweet to the heart is the thought of to-morrow
When hope's fairy pictures bright colours display; How sweet, when we can from futurity borrow
A balm for the grief that afflicts us to-day ?
When wearisome sickness has taught me to languish
For health and the comforts it bears on its wing, 1 Let me hope, oh ! how soon would it lessen my anguish, That to-morrow will ease and serenity bring.
When travelling alone, quite forlorn, unbefriended,
Sweet the hope that to-morrow my wanderings may cease;
Then at home when with care sympathetic attended, I should rest unmolested, and slumber in
