SCEPTICISM.

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.