Now hope the longing soul employs,
In expectation we are blest;
But soon the airy phantom flies,
For, lo! the treasure is possest.
Those monarchs proud that havoc spread,
(While pensive nature[113] dropt a tear)
Those monarchs have to darkness fled
And ruin bounds their mad career.
The grandeur of this earthly round,
Where Theon[114] would forever be,
Is but a name, is but a sound—
Mere emptiness and vanity.
Give me the stars, give me the skies,
Give me the heaven's remotest sphere,
Above these gloomy scenes to rise
Of desolation and despair.
Those native fires that warmed the mind
Now languid grown too dimly glow,
Joy has to grief the heart resigned
And love itself is changed to woe.
The joys of wine are all you boast,
These for a moment damp thy pain;
The gleam is o'er, the charm is lost—
And darkness clouds the soul again.
Then seek no more for bliss below,
Where real bliss can ne'er be found,
Aspire where sweeter blossoms blow
And fairer flowers bedeck the ground.
Where plants of life the plains invest
And green eternal crowns the year,
The little god within thy breast[115]
Is weary of his mansion here.
Like Phosphor clad in bright array[116]
His height meridian to regain,
He can, nor will no longer stay[117]
To shiver on a frozen plain.
Life's journey past, for death[118] prepare,
'Tis but the freedom of the mind,
Jove made us mortal—his we are,
To Jove, dear Theon,[119] be resigned.