WHAT IS BITTER.
’Tis bitter when beneath the midnight moon
We wander near the graves of those we love;
The lone heart sinks, and sighs for the bless’d boon
Of rest above.
When wearied age, with retrospective view,
Sees in the record of departed years
A tale of blighted hopes—he reads it through
With bitter tears.
’Tis bitter when our days are almost done,
To feel for wasted talents vain regret,
And see, with guilty fear, our life’s last sun
In sorrow set.
’Tis bitter when revenge, with hellish art,
Lights in the breast her ever-scorching flame,
Stirs passion’s depths, and forms the tiger-heart,
No power can tame.
And bitter is the heart, nay more, undone,
That finds long-cherished hopes in ruin end,
Crushed by the cruel treachery of one,
It deemed a friend.
Eta.