TO ——.
You would make hearts your stepping stones to power.
And trample on them in your triumph-hour;
But mine was formed for nobler fate than this,
It knows the treachery of your Judas-kiss.
You talk of “lofty feelings pure and high,
Too pure, alas!” and then you gently sigh;
You mourn the trials, which a soul like yours,
So true—amid the meaner herd endures.
You say ’tis sad, but yet you would not part,