Boy, let yon liquid ruby flow
And bid thy pensive heart be glad,

Whate'er the frowning zealots say :
Tell them their Eden cannot show
A stream so clear as Rocnabad,

A bower so sweet as Mosellay.

Oh, when these fair perfidious maids
Whose eyes our secret haunts infest.

Their dear destructive charms display, Each glance my tender breast invades. And robs my wounded soul of rest,

As Tartars seize their destined prey.

In vain with love our bosoms glow:
Can all our tears, can all our sighs,

New lustre to those charms impart?
Can cheeks where living roses blow,
Where Nature spreads her richest dyes,
Require the borrowed gloss of art?

Speak not of fate-ah! change the theme, And talk of odors, talk of wine,

Talk of the flowers that round us bloom : 'Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream; To love and joy thy thoughts confiue,

Nor hope to pierce the sacred gloom.

WORKS DEATH SUCH CHANGE?

ORKS Death such change upon our dead,

WORKS Death

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?

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.

MIN

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

A willowy brook that turns a mill, With many a fall, shall linger near.

The swallow oft beneath my thatch Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch

And share my meal, a welcome guest.

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.