SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL.—No. 12.
Away! away! ye hopes which stray
Like jeering spectres from the tomb!
Ye cannot light the coming night,
And shall not mock its gathering gloom;
Though dark the cloud shall form my shroud—
Though danger league with racking doubt—
Away! away! ye shall not stay
When all my joys are “up the spout!”
I little knew when first ye threw
Your bright’ning beams on coming hours,
That time would see me turn from thee,
And fly your sweet delusive powers.
Now, nerved to woe, no more I’ll know
How hope deferr’d makes mortal sick;
The gathering storm may whelm my form,
But I will suffer “like a brick!”