’Tis _bitter_ when beneath the midnight moon
We wander near the graves of those we love;
The lone heart sinks, and sighs for the bless’d boon
Of rest above.
When wearied age, with retrospective view,
Sees in the record of departed years
A tale of blighted hopes--he reads it through
With _bitter_ tears.
’Tis _bitter_ when our days are almost done,
To feel for wasted talents vain regret,
And see, with guilty fear, our life’s last sun
In sorrow set.
’Tis _bitter_ when revenge, with hellish art,
Lights in the breast her ever-scorching flame,
Stirs passion’s depths, and forms the tiger-heart,
No power can tame.
And _bitter_ is the heart, nay more, undone,
That finds long-cherished hopes in ruin end,
Crushed by the cruel treachery of one,
It deemed _a friend_.
Eta.