Dead are my hopes, and my desponding soul
⁠An ardid soil, that bears nor fruits nor flowers;
And, blindly tottering to an unknown goal,
⁠Joyless and goodless pass my futile hours.

There is no sunshine in my spring of life—
⁠There is no rest-place in my pilgrimage;
All outward ill and endless inward strife,
⁠My youth have fettered with the chains of age.

Haunted with gloomy thoughts for evermore,
⁠Like sheeted ghosts, peopling my solitude,
I sigh for hopes that time may not restore,
⁠And weep my endless exile from the good.

The dark and goalless voyage of my fate
⁠Is lighted by the charnel lamp alone;
And shore or shipwreck callous I await
⁠Nor that with smile would see, nor this with groan.

And one sole, simple, solitary joy,
⁠Dear as the light that cheers the wand’rer’s way,
Is left my languid senses to employ,
⁠And fill my mind throughout the weary day.

And thou, sage Philosoph, wouldst thou discover
⁠The talisman that sways me—soul and body?
List—on my lips the solemn words now hover:
⁠”‘Tis oysters barbecued and whiskey toddy.”