Which Hope but lends to trusting Love alone,
That certainty which dwells perchance above,
Unknown on earth, and least of all to love.
Why does the spirit thus itself deceive,
And all its own fond flatteries believe?
Is it because these soft delusive dreams
Like rainbows glow with heavenly-painted beams,
And that to make them we e'en shed our tears
If the glad sunshine come from happier spheres?—
Alas! 'tis true; for when those beams have flown
The tears remain, and they—are all our own!