Thrust foully into the earth to be forgot! Oh Heavens-but I appal Your heart, old man! forgive-ha! on your lives Let him not faint!-rack him till he revives! Vain-vain-give o'er! His eye Glazes apace. He does not feel you now— Stand back! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow! Gods! if he do not die But for one moment-one-till I eclipse Shivering! Hark! he mutters Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head! How like a mounting devil in the heart And unthrones peace for ever. Putting on The heart to ashes, and with not a spring We look upon our splendor and forget The thirst of which we perish! Yet hath life Promising well, and love-touch'd dreams for some, And from Love's very bosom, and from Gain, From all but keen Ambition, will the soul Oh, if there were not better hopes than these- And die of their own fulness-if beyond The grave there is no Heaven in whose wide air Of whose bright habitants the lavish heart May spend itself—what thrice-mocked fools are we! THE WIFE'S APPEAL. "Love borrows greatly from opinion. Pride above all things strengthens affection." E. L. BULWER. He sat and read. A book with silver clasps, All gorgeous with illuminated lines Of gold and crimson, lay upon a frame And in it were fine mysteries of the stars Beneath his limbs, and, as he turned the page, The sunlight, streaming through the curtain's fold, Fell with a rose-tint on his jewell'd hand, And the rich woods of the quaint furniture Lay deepening their veined colours in the sun, Of times gone by that made them, and old bards, Around the room were shelves of dainty lore, And rich old pictures hung upon the walls From Herculaneum, the niches filled. And on a table of enamel, wrought With a lost art in Italy, there lay And in their midst a massive lamp of bronze Upon the carpet couched a graceful hound, |