The Future, and its gifts, alone we prize,
Few joys the Present brings, and those alloy'd;
Th' expected fulness leaves an aching void;
But HOPE stands by, and lifts her sunny eyes
That gild the days to come.—She still relies
The Phantom HAPPINESS not thus shall glide
Always from life.—Alas!—yet ill betide
Austere Experience, when she coldly tries
In distant roses to discern the thorn!
Ah! is it wise to anticipate our pain?
Arriv'd, it then is soon enough to mourn.
Nor call the dear Consoler false and vain,
When yet again, shining through april-tears,
Those fair enlight'ning eyes beam on advancing Years.