The dew of compassion is a tear.

As falls the dew on quenchless sands, blood only serves to wash ambition's hands.

Oh! too convincing -- dangerously dear -- In woman's eye the unanswerable tear!

And every dew-drop paints a bow.

But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.

For pleasures past I do not grieve, nor perils gathering near; My greatest grief is that I leave nothing that claims a tear.