Wretched, should aught but thwart thine ardent wish;
And oh! how ravish’d if thou mark’st one glance,
Which tells the latent longings of the soul!
In that high fever, the delirious brain
Coins gaudy phantoms of celestial bliss,
Of bliss that never comes—for now, e’en now
From airy joys he wakes to solid pain.
Quick to his sight up springs, in long array,
A tribe of horrid ills—the cold reply;
The unanswer’d question; the assenting nod