To Despondency

O, thou lingering draught of sorrow,

That, pouring incessant, quenches no thirst.

Thy bitter dregs do darkly harrow

The life-weary spirit and make it accursed.

What tongue could stay thy ever-groaning?

Or what wind could blow thy sighings away?

Thy trades of song for funeral mourning

Do bless the dark night and shame the bright day.

Though thou art plenty and owned by men

A companion faithful in times of woe,

Thou art closest friend that ever hast been:

As true as the chains that will not let go.

So men will submit to cold slavery:

This bitter-sweet drug of despondency.