by Elizabeth Bentley
BLIND goddess, whose capricious sway
The thoughtless race of man obey,
Whose transient smiles they court;
How hapless must thy vot'ries be,
Who, lur'd to fancy'd bliss by thee,
Become thy cruel sport.
Thou, sorc'ress, on thy magic wheel,
Bid'st human race thy vengeance feel,
And dread the fatal turn;
Though now they gain the topmost seat,
And with exulting triumph's heat
Their raptur'd bosoms burn.
Yet soon, transfix'd, their envy'd lot,
Their pow'r, their greatness, all forgot,
They find themselves the scorn
Of those exalted in their place,
Whom late they deem'd an abject race,
For their advantage born.
Then happiest they who ne'er depend
On such a fickle, faithless friend,
Nor thy dominion own;
Whose pleasure's to no state confin'd,
Who, with a steady, equal mind,
Can meet thy smile or frown.
Thrice happy he, who, truly wise,
Can each intemp'rate bliss despise,
Which might his peace annoy;
Blest with Content, serenely fair,
Stranger alike to dark Despair
And wild tumultuous Joy.
Last updated January 14, 2019