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.