Song

Say — what is worse than blank despair ;
'Tis that sick hope too weak for flying,
That plays at fast and loose with care,
And wastes a weary life in dying.
Though promise be a welcome guest,
Yet may it be too late a comer,
'Tis but a cuckoo voice at best,
The joy of spring, scarce heard in summer.
Then now consent, this very hour,
Let the kind word of peace be spoken :
Like dew upon a wither'd flower,
Is comfort to the heart that's broken.

The heart, whose will is from above,
Shall yet its mortal taint discover,
For Time, that cannot alter love,
Has power to slay the wretched lover.