I'LL LOVE NO MORE.

For 'twixt the hours of twelve and one me

thought

help,

At which same time the house seemed all on

fire

With dreadful horror of these damned fiends.

SEC. SCH. Well, gentlemen, though Faustus' end be such

As every Christian heart laments to think

on,

Yet for he was a scholar once ad

mired

For wondrous knowledge in our German schools

We'll give his mangled limbs due burial, And all the scholars, clothed in mourning black,

Shall wait upon his heavy funeral.

CHRISTOPHER MARLOW.

The world is wholly selfish, false and vain;

The generous heart but courts ingratitude, And friendship woos but insult and dis

dain.

Far from a cold and worthless world I'll haste:

Why should my best affections unrequited

waste?

I fled the busy throng and turned my feet Where towering trees in sunny dells rejoice,

But all things seemed, amid my lone re

treat,

To mourn my stern resolve and chide my

choice;

All urged me, so methought, to turn again, And with a hopeful trust to love my fellow

men.

W°

TWO RONDEAUX.

I.

WORKS DEATH SUCH CHANGE?

ORKS Death such change upon our dead,

Doth it such awe around them spread,

That should they suddenly appear

At once we'd shrink from them with fear,

Though on their breast we laid our head?

Why should their light and ghostly tread
Thus thrill us with a nameless dread
If still we hold them all so dear?
Works Death such change?

We kissed their cold lips on the bier,
And, weeping, wished the spirit here;
And shall the wish be all unsaid
If some night, rising near our bed,
They stand within the moonlight clear?
Works Death such change?

H

THE GOLDEN RINGLET.

ERE is a little golden tress
Of soft unbraided hair,

The all that's left of loveliness
That once was thought so fair;
And yet, though time hath dimmed its
sheen,

Though all beside hath fled,

I hold it here, a link between
My spirit and the dead.

Yes, from this shining ringlet still
A mournful memory springs
That melts my heart and sheds a thrill
Through all its trembling strings:
I think of her, the loved, the wept,
Upon whose forehead fair

For eighteen years like sunshine slept
This golden curl of hair.

MT

But the shadows of eve that encompass the

gloom,

The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb.

Shall we build to Ambition? Oh no! Affrighted, he shrinketh away;

For see! they would pin him below In a small narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay,

To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.

To Beauty? Ah, no! she forgets

ETHINKS it is good to be here;

If thou wilt, let us build. But for whom?

Nor Elias nor Moses appear,

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets. The skin which but yesterday fools could adore

For the smoothness it held or the tint which it wore.

Shall we build to the purple of Pride, The trappings which dizen the proud? Alas! they are all laid aside,

And here's neither dress nor adornment allowed

But the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the shroud.

To Riches? Alas! 'tis in vain : Who hid, in their turn have been hid;

The treasures are squandered again, And here in the grave are all metals forbid. But the tinsel that shines on the dark coffinlid.

To the pleasures which Mirth can afford, The revel, the laugh and the jeer?

Ah! here is a plentiful board! But the guests are all mute as their pitiful

cheer,

And none but the worm is a reveller here.