Dash from thy lip the treacherous glass,
Nor think its joys sincere
Its feverish dream will quickly pass,
And sorrow still be near.
The friends of laughing hours,
With them will take their flight
And like these summer flowers,
Fade with the wintry blight.
But ’tis this boast of woman’s love,
The hour of grief to share,
No threatening skies her smiles reprove
Or check her watchful care.
She, when misfortune’s stroke,
O’er thee its gloom would cast,
Like ivy, round the oak,
Binds closer in the blast.