SCEPTICISM.

Ere Psyche drank the cup that shed

Immortal Life into her soul,

Some evil spirit poured,‘ tis said,

One drop of Doubt into the bowl —

Which, mingling darkly with the stream,

To Psyche's lips — she knew not why —

Made even that blessed nectar seem

As tho’ its sweetness soon would die.

Oft, in the very arms of Love,

A chill came o'er her heart — a fear

That Death might, even yet, remove

Her spirit from that happy sphere.

“Those sunny ringlets,” she exclaimed.

Twining them round her snowy fingers;

“That forehead, where a light unnamed,

“Unknown on earth, for ever lingers;

“Those lips, thro’ which I feel the breath

“Of Heaven itself, whene'er they sever —

“Say, are they mine, beyond all death,

“My own, hereafter, and for ever?

“Smile not — I know that starry brow,

“Those ringlets, and bright lips of thine,

“Will always shine, as they do now —

“But shall I live to see them shine?”

In vain did Love say, “Turn thine eyes

“On all that sparkles round thee here —

“Thou'rt now in heaven where nothing dies,

“And in these arms — what canst thou fear?”

In vain — the fatal drop, that stole

Into that cup's immortal treasure,

Had lodged its bitter near her soul.

And gave a tinge to every pleasure.

And, tho’ there ne'er was transport given

Like Psyche's with that radiant boy,

Here is the only face in heaven,

That wears a cloud amid its joy.