My dearest treasure death’s cold arms enfold,
The joy and glory of my every hour;
And Earth cannot restore it; nor can power,
Nor oriental gems, nor hoards of gold.
Since fate such sorrow doth for me prepare,
How can I choose but bear a bleeding heart,
Eyes ever moist, and looks by grief inspired?
Oh life! which seen afar appears so fair,
How often in one morning doth depart,
That which long years of suffering had acquired.