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.