My heart is pain'd with scorn and slight;
I have too many foes to fight,
And friends grown strangely cool!
The very chum that shar'd my cake
Holds out so cold a hand to shake,
It makes me shrink and sigh:—
On this I will not dwell and hang,
The changeling would not feel a pang
Though these should meet his eye!
No skies so blue or so serene