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What, were ye born to be
An hour or half's delight,
But you are lovely leaves, where we
Into the grave.
FILLED WITH MORNING DEW.
HY do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears
Who were but born
Just as the modest morn
Alas! ye have not known that shower
That mars a flower;
Nor felt th' unkind
Breath of a blasting wind;
Nor are ye worn with years;
Or warped, as we,
Who think it strange to see
Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known
Ye droop and weep.
Is it for want of sleep,
Or childish lullaby?
Or, that ye have not seen as yet
Or brought a kiss
From that sweetheart to this?
No, no; this sorrow, shown
Would have this lecture read:
"That things of greatest, so of meanest worth,
Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.”
FILL the bowl with rosy wine,
Around our temples roses twine,
And let us cheerfully awhile,
To-day is ours; what do we fear?
HAPPY insect, what can be
In happiness compar'd to thee?
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant cup does fill;
Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing,
All that summer hours produce,
Thou dost innocently enjoy;
Thee country hinds with gladness hear, Prophet of the ripen'd year!
Thee Phœbus loves, and does inspire; Phœbus is himself thy sire.
To thee, of all things upon earth,
But when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung
Thy fill, the flowery leaves among (Voluptuous and wise withal, Epicurean animal !),
Satiated with thy summer feast,
GO, LOVELY ROSE!"
Go, lovely Rose!
Tell her, that wastes her time and me That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Tell her that's young
And shuns to have her graces spied,
In deserts, where no men abide,
Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired:
Suffer herself to be desired,·
Then die! that she
The common fate of all things rare
How small a part of time they share
OLD AGE AND DEATH.
HE seas are quiet when the winds give o'er;
The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd,
As they draw near to their eternal home.
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view,