Oh no!—I will not give my heart to thee,
Cold, mocking world!—I still would wish to be
Apart from thy caress; for thou canst smile
And weave thy meshes fraught with treach'rous guile,
Luring us to destruction;—thou hast power
To blight the freshness of the springtide flower,
To point the spear and pierce the trusting breast,
To rob the down-press'd pillow of its rest,
Snatching the laurel from the brow of fame,
The poet's dream dispel—the hope, the name,
Years of stern toil have won.—The faith, the love
Which kindred souls may feel all else above,
To thee is as a toy. Communion sweet!
Alas! alas! with thee, friendship and love ne'er meet.