Yes, he is blest, who for the fair
Heaves not the fond impassion'd sigh;
Who heeds not beauty, shape, or air,
Nor knows the language of the eye.

But pity to the wretch is due,
Who, love--beguil'd, still loves in vain;
Who seems a phantom to pursue,
Yet, hope--inspir'd, pursues with pain:

Whose looks betray the bursting heart,
That vainly pants for liberty:
Death only takes the mourner's part,
Who sets the wearied Captive free.