So bright the tear in Beauty's eye, Love half regrets to kiss it dry.
That famish'd people must be slowly nurst, and fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst.
Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.
Whatsoever thy birth, Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth.
No ear can hear nor tongue can tell the tortures of the inward hell!
Which cheers the sad, revives the old, inspires The young, makes Weariness forget his toil, And Fear her danger; opens a new world When this, the present, palls.