Oh! I am weary of a world, where vice,
Like the destroying canker-worm, doth wind
Into the bosom's core of those who bear,
The subtle, but false semblance, of a truth,
And virtue, which they know not:-smiles, warm smiles,
And kindest courtesies; and words, which wear
The mockery of tenderness;-all these,
Are but the maskings of most hollow hearts,
Where selfishness, and treachery, do league
To make, and keep their home. The things we love
Are garb'd, by Fancy, with such brilliant hues,
As the clouds borrow from the farewell beams
Of the departing sun;-but let them stand

Forth in their own reality-disrob'd
Of the warm colouring which our minds have flung
Round them, in rich adornment, and the soul
Will shrink to find its idols cold and dim,
As are the vapours gather'd in the West,
When the Day-God is gone!