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Scepticism.
By Thomas Moore
Ere Psyche drank the cup that shed
Immortal Life into her soul,
Some evil spirit poured, 'tis said,
One drop of Doubt into the bowl--
Which, mingling darkly with the stream,
To Psyche's lips--she knew not why--
Made even that blessed nectar seem
As tho' its sweetness soon would die.
Oft, in the very arms of Love,
A chill came o'er her heart--a fear
That Death might, even yet, remove
Her spirit from that happy sphere.
"Those sunny ringlets," she exclaimed.
Twining them round her snowy fingers;
"That forehead, where a light unnamed,
"Unknown on earth, for ever lingers;
"Those lips, thro' which I feel the breath
"Of Heaven itself, whene'er they sever--
"Say, are they mine, beyond all death,
"My own, hereafter, and for ever?
"Smile not--I know that starry brow,
"Those ringlets, and bright lips of thine,
"Will always shine, as they do now--
"But shall I live to see them shine?"
In vain did Love say, "Turn thine eyes
"On all that sparkles round thee here--
"Thou'rt now in heaven where nothing dies,
"And in these arms--what canst thou fear?"
In vain--the fatal drop, that stole
Into that cup's immortal treasure,
Had lodged its bitter near her soul.
And gave a tinge to every pleasure.
And, tho' there ne'er was transport given
Like Psyche's with that radiant boy,
Here is the only face in heaven,
That wears a cloud amid its joy.
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