In Every Breast Affection Fires, There Dwells A Secret Consciousness To What Degree They Are Themselves Belov'D. - We Hourly See Th' Involuntary Proof, That Either Quells, Or Ought To Quell False Hopes, - Or Sets Us Free From Pain'D Distrust; - But, O, The Misery! Weak Self-Delusion Timidly Repels The Lights Obtrusive - Shrinks From All That Tells Unwelcome Truths, And Vainly Seeks Repose For Startled Fondness, In The Opiate Balm, Of Kind Profession, Tho', Perchance, It Flows To Hush Complaint - O! In Belief'S Clear Calm, Or 'Mid The Lurid Clouds Of Doubt, We Find Love Rise The Sun, Or Comet Of The Mind.