The highest honors that the world can boast
Are subjects far too low for my desire;
The brightest beams of glory are, at most,
But dying sparkles of thy living fire.
The loudest flames that earth can kindle, be
But nightly glow-worms if compar’d to thee.
Without thy presence, wealth is bags of cares;
Wisdom, but folly; joy, disquiet—sadness:
Friendship is treason, and delights are snares;
Pleasures but pain, and mirth but pleasing madness.