THE MIRAGE.

1833.

Oft in the desert dreary

A stream, the pilgrim spies,

And joyous then, though weary,

He speedeth to the prize:

But onward as he goeth,

The stream, the shining stream

Is vanish’d, and he knoweth

’Twas but an idle dream.

So pleasure, bright appearing,

Oft tempts frail man astray:

And off, with joy careering,

He runs his giddy way:

But ah too soon perceiveth,

How false she is, and vain:

Her painted face deceiveth,

And cheats us into pain.

Oh pleasure! What is pleasure!

A phantom of the mind;

We seize it as a treasure,

’Tis emptiness we find:

The heart for pleasure sigheth,

But who hath pleasure known!

Ere it is born, it dieth;

Ere it is caught—’tis flown!