The Author On Himself Poem by Robert Anderson

I long have drank of pleasure's cup,
And oft have been the son of pain;
And I have tasted friendly joys,
That I must never share again:
For time hath now my forehead bared,
And cherish'd hopes, all, all are fled;
I cannot soothe another's woes,
Or dry the tear by sorrow shed!

Cold Poverty, with haggard look,
Now threatens sore, in life's decline;
And Friendship wears another garb;
And Love's delights no more are mine.
Night comes not, now, with dreams of bliss;
I chide the slow approach of day;
Reflection causes painful sighs;
And I could weep the hours away!