The Remonstrance

You give up the world! why, as well might the sun,
When tired of drinking the dew from the flowers,
While his rays, like young hopes, stealing off one by one,
Die away with the muezzin's last note from the towers,
Declare that he never would gladden again,
With one rosy smile, the young morn in its birth;
But leave weeping Day, with her sorrowful train
Of hours, to grope o'er a pall-cover'd earth.
The light of that soul once so brilliant and steady,
So far can the incense of flattery smother,
That, at thought of the world of hearts conquer'd already,
Like Macedon's madman, you weep for another?
O! if sated with this, you would seek worlds untried,
And fresh as was ours, when first we began it,
Let me know but the sphere where you next will abide,
And that instant, for one, I am off for that planet.