Illusions.

As down life's morning stream we glide,

Full oft some Flower stoops o'er its side,

And beckons to the smiling shore,

Where roses strew the landscape o'er:

Yet as we reach that Flower to clasp,

It seems to mock the cheated grasp,

And whisper soft, with siren glee,

“My bloom is not — oh not for thee!”

Within Youth's flowery vale I tread,

By some entrancing shadow led —

And Echo to my call replies —

Yet, as she answers, lo, she flies!

And, as I seem to reach her cell —

The grotto, where she weaves her spell —

The Nymph's sweet voice afar I hear —

So Love departs, as we draw near!

Upon a mountain's dizzy height,

Ambition's temple gleams with light:

Proud forms are moving fair within,

And bid us strive that light to win.

O'er giddy cliff and crag we strain,

And reach the mountain top — in vain!

For lo! the temple, still afar,

Shines cold and distant as a star.

I hear a voice, whose accents dear

Melt, like soft music, in mine ear.

A gentle hand, that seems divine,

Is warmly, fondly clasped in mine;

And lips upon my cheeks are pressed,

That whisper tones from regions blest:

But soon I start — for friendship's kiss

Is gone, and lo! a serpent's hiss.

The sun goes down, and shadows rest

On the gay scenes by morning blest;

The gathering clouds invest the air —

Yet one bright constant Star is there.

Onward we press, with heavy load,

O'er tangled path and rough'ning road,

For still that Star shines bright before;

But now it sinks, and all is o'er!