Twas night—and fiercely raged the storm,
Some spirit seemed to chide him ;
It pass'd, and sweetly broke the morn,
Nought from himself could hide him.
Once had he woo'd a trusting maid,
Her trusting heart had broken—
Why is the lingering curse delay'd ?
He knows his doom is spoken.

With madden'd hand the wine cup fill—
It has no power to ease him ;
Fair forms are gliding round him still—
What charm have they to please him ?
The mirthful madness of the bowl
Shows but the dark thought smothered ;
Can beauty's glance e'er charm a soul
Which that sweet glance has withered ?

Thus the destroyer stands destroyed,
Though wealth and power surround him ;
His heart a blank, a dreary void,
Earth's choicest joys around him.
And love is thus a lovely flower,
To true hearts who enjoy it ;
But crush'd, it bears envenom'd power,
For those who thus destroy it.