Oft in the desert dreary

Oft in the desert dreary A stream, the pilgrim spies, And joyous then, though weary, He speedeth to the prize: But onward as he goeth, The stream, the shining stream Is vanish’d, and he knoweth ’Twas but an idle dream.

So pleasure, bright appearing, Oft tempts frail man astray: And off, with joy careering, He runs his giddy way: But ah too soon perceiveth, How false she is, and vain: Her painted face deceiveth, And cheats us into pain.

Oh pleasure! What is pleasure! A phantom of the mind; We seize it as a treasure, ’Tis emptiness we find: The heart for pleasure sigheth, But who hath pleasure known! Ere it is born, it dieth; Ere it is caught—’tis flown!