Hopes what are they?—Beads of morning

III

Hopes what are they?—Beads of morning
Strung on slender blades of grass;
Or a spider’s web adorning
In a strait and treacherous pass.

What are fears but voices airy?
Whispering harm where harm is not,
And deluding the unwary
Till the fatal bolt is shot!

What is glory?—in the socket
See how dying Tapers fare!
What is pride?—a whizzing rocket
That would emulate a star.

What is friendship?—do not trust her,
Nor the vows which she has made;
Diamonds dart their brightest lustre
From a palsy-shaken head.

What is truth?—a staff rejected;
Duty?—an unwelcome clog;
Joy?—a dazzling moon reflected
In a swamp or watery bog;

Bright, as if through ether steering,
To the Traveller’s eye it shone:
He hath hailed it re-appearing—
And as quickly it is gone;

Gone, as if for ever hidden,
Or misshapen to the sight;
And by sullen weeds forbidden
To resume its native light.

What is youth?—a dancing billow,
Winds behind, and rocks before!
Age?—a drooping, tottering willow
On a flat and lazy shore.

What is peace?—when pain is over,
And love ceases to rebel,
Let the last faint sigh discover
That precedes the passing knell!