Who ponders on eternity, can draw
Its shadow o’er the strangeness of this earth,
And, quite immersed in future bliss, can store
His fancy’s dreams with fables of new birth;
And men have tortured, altering holiest phrase,
And sanctified the hopes which they adored;
Have made their souls more worthless than their praise,
Saying, that perfect love to Heaven outpoured,
Must hold its flood, nor risk the Heaven it decks,
Making love less lovely than the hope of bliss;
Fostering the demon Self, whose presence checks,
And dulls each noble prompting with his kiss.
Say ye, who steal the jewels from Heaven’s crown,
Where lies the rigour of Hell’s fancied frown?