OH, when have after-days or evenings brought
Forgiveness home to penitence downcast?
Oh, when has trust been perfect,--honour fast,--
But fault or fate have made it all of nought?
What joy of ours is tinged not with a thought
Of future emptiness, or wasted past?--
What sorrow ever seems to be the last?--
What treasure found compares with treasure sought?

In pale fruition we shall ne'er forget
The splendid dream our eagerness did make;
A shadow lies on all things;--let us take
Our share, and battle on a little yet.
Friend, keep my hand! let friendship never break;
Let one thing be at least 'without regret.'