  When the eye whose kind beam was the beacon of gladness From the glance of a lover turns coldly away, O'er the bright sun of hope float the dark clouds of sadness, And youth's lovely visions recede with the ray. Oh turn not where pleasure's wild meteor is beaming, And night's dreary shades wear the splendour of day, To the rich festive board where the red wine is streaming;— Can the dance and the song disappointment allay? Oh heed not the Syren! for virtue is weeping Where passion is struggling her victim to chain, And Conscience, deep drugged, in her soft lap is sleeping, Till startled by memory and quickened by pain. Oh heed not the minstrel, when music is breathing In the cold ear of fashion his heart-searching strain; And pluck not the rose round Love's diadem wreathing; The garland by beauty is woven in vain. The pleasures of life, like its moments, are fleeting; Oh let not its trifles your firm purpose move; But think as those moments are slowly retreating, How feebly against its enchantments you strove: Then turn from the world, and, its follies forsaking, Raise your eyes to the day-star of gladness above; There's a balm for each wound, though the fond heart is breaking, A LethÉ divine in the fountain of Love!
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