Yet may the slow-corroding canker kill,
While all around it smiles, it fadeth still;
Such is the thankless heart which—pleasure-cloyed—
Turns from surrounding good to fancied ill,
And forms within itself a cheerless void
’Mid blessings unacknowledged, pleasures unenjoyed.
Oh! deem ye not them sufferers alone
Whom poverty consumes, or cares oppress,
Who mourn o’er health departed, hopes o’erthrown,
Or—severed from a parent’s fond caress—