O cherish not the sad illusion,
All thy high-wrought hopes deceiving,
Which whispers thee, that heart’s profusion
Of love can end in “unforgiving!”
Too well I know thy conscious breast,
That form’d, how brief! my “placid” pillow,
Hath wandered from its ark of rest,
Far stretching o’er life’s cheerless billow.
(This is dated April 29, 1816, and consists of twenty-three verses in all. It is unnecessary to quote the remainder, but the poem can be found in the British Museum Library, 11642 b.b.b. 58.)