The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
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 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
107
SCEPTICISM.
Ere Psyche drank the cup, that shed
Immortal Life into her soul,
Some evil spirit pour'd, 'tis said,
One drop of Doubt into the bowl—
Immortal Life into her soul,
Some evil spirit pour'd, 'tis said,
One drop of Doubt into the bowl—
Which, mingling darkly with the stream,
To Psyche's lips—she knew not why—
Made ev'n that blessed nectar seem
As though its sweetness soon would die.
To Psyche's lips—she knew not why—
Made ev'n that blessed nectar seem
As though 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.
A chill came o'er her heart—a fear
That Death might, even yet, remove
Her spirit from that happy sphere.
108
“Those sunny ringlets,” she exclaim'd,
Twining them round her snowy fingers;
“That forehead, where a light, unnam'd,
“Unknown on earth, for ever lingers;
Twining them round her snowy fingers;
“That forehead, where a light, unnam'd,
“Unknown on earth, for ever lingers;
“Those lips, through which I feel the breath
“Of Heav'n itself, whene'er they sever—
“Say, are they mine, beyond all death,
“My own, hereafter, and for ever?
“Of Heav'n 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?”
“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?”
“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 lodg'd its bitter near her soul,
And gave a tinge to every pleasure.
Into that cup's immortal treasure,
Had lodg'd its bitter near her soul,
And gave a tinge to every pleasure.
109
And, though there ne'er was transport given
Like Psyche's with that radiant boy,
Hers is the only face in heaven,
That wears a cloud amid its joy.
Like Psyche's with that radiant boy,
Hers is the only face in heaven,
That wears a cloud amid its joy.
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | |