ON SELF MISERY.—AN EPIGRAM.
Do pity the wretch who can have no enjoyment,
Unless from the help of another;
Whose addle mind him finds no native employment
Adapted heart-sorrows to smother:
For then, he’s afflicted with worst of all evils,
That e’er o’er the wretched could come;
His ways would declare, he is haunted by devils,
Which make of his misery the “sum!”
Unless from the help of another;
Whose addle mind him finds no native employment
Adapted heart-sorrows to smother:
For then, he’s afflicted with worst of all evils,
That e’er o’er the wretched could come;
His ways would declare, he is haunted by devils,
Which make of his misery the “sum!”
While, how to escape from himself, is a querry;
Oft making him rush into woe!—
Or dreaming ’tis “life” to be thoughtlessly merry,
The pleasures of peace to forego;
How fatal such dreaming!—a snare, the invention
Of foes the most cruel, though sly;
False joys they would offer with blandest pretension,
Whose aim is the soul to destroy!
Oft making him rush into woe!—
Or dreaming ’tis “life” to be thoughtlessly merry,
The pleasures of peace to forego;
How fatal such dreaming!—a snare, the invention
Of foes the most cruel, though sly;
False joys they would offer with blandest pretension,
Whose aim is the soul to destroy!
