In every breast Affection fires, there dwells
A secret consciousness to what degree
They are themselves belov'd.--We hourly see
Th' involuntary proof, that either quells,
Or ought to quell false hopes,--or sets us free
From pain'd distrust;--but, O, the misery!
Weak Self-Delusion timidly repels
The lights obtrusive--shrinks from all that tells
Unwelcome truths, and vainly seeks repose
For startled Fondness, in the opiate balm,
Of kind profession, tho', perchance, it flows
To hush Complaint--O! in Belief's clear calm,
Or 'mid the lurid clouds of Doubt, we find
LOVE rise the Sun, or Comet of the Mind.