Nay ;-ask not for a mirthful air,-
I ne'er will sing of joy again ;
Dejected-driven to despair-
As I for ever must remain ;

Nor bid me tell of happier days,
When hope was young, and life look'd sweet ;
When all my light was pleasure's blaze,
And joys were smiling at my feet.

But let me sing of wounded peace, -
A mind by passion's conflict torn,-
Of lost content, - of ruin'd ease,
And hopes that died as soon as born,-

Of fancy's self-destroying dreams, -
Of disappointment's fatal dart, -
These, and these only, are the themes
That suit a woe-worn broken heart.

That heart is sick with hope deferr'd ;-
Its dreams are false-its prospects vain-
And friendship's voice is never heard,
To calm my wilder'd fev'rish brain.

Despair within my bosom preys ;-
You see not-but I feel the smart :
Like Ætna's wild internal blaze,
It silently consumes my heart.

Sometimes reflection's lurid beam
Will dart like madness o'er my mind ;
And, as a baleful meteor stream
To show the dreadful wreck behind.

And sometimes hope's delusive light
Will, for an instant, o'er me roll,
And with its sunshine-ray make bright
Even the darkness of my soul.

But soon of joy I lose the trace :-
That beam allow'd me but to see
The cavity-the dreadful space-
That lies between my peace and me.

Then go ; and follow pleasure's course ;
And leave me to my tears and sighs,
And to the torture of remorse
That ever-dying never dies.