That hides, with all its loveliness, the wreck of life beneath;
E'en so the smile, the flash of joy, that on my cheek appears—
Altho' 'tis seen—no longer now my blighted bosom cheers.
O ! could I take the wings of morn, or soar with eagle crest,
I'd spurn the world, and flee away to some unbroken rest;—
O! could I weep for all my joy, and all my wildest woe,
That very grief would give relief—those tears would sweetly flow!
But ah! it seems that even tears to me are now denied;
The sacred spring of sympathy has long ago been dried.
Tho' sorrow in my desert breast her habitation make,
My heart will heed her dwelling not—it is too stern to break.