Poems

Front matter

S.

BY

PHILADELPHIA:

The Fifth Act of "The Huguenots"

Clasp me closer, O beloved! Fold my throbbing heart to thine; See along the lurid city how our wedding torches shine; And the anthems of our bridal cleave the midnight's shuddering breath: Lo, the priest waits to unite us—that pale priest whose name is Death!

Ay, behold my second bridal—it is fairer than the first; Then my soul with bitter mem'ries and with yearnings wild was curst. Sweeter far the murderous midnight and the martyr's couch of pain Than the barges' silken glories gliding down the smiling Seine.

Better far the martyr's glory and the grave's triumphant rest, Better thus to pass to heaven with my head upon thy breast, Than to tread Life's thorny mazes with toil-worn and weary feet, Than to mask my life-long loneliness in glittering deceit.

See the torches shine advancing, flashing down the narrow street; Nearer shout the murderous voices, nearer come the hurrying feet. Closer, closer clasp me, Raoul; lay my head upon thy breast; Never more on earth we'll sever—Death is with us—Death and rest!

The Duel

They'll miss him sadly. More than one fair dame Will o'er his sudden fate in secret grieve. How well he looked this morning, as he stood Waiting my fire with such a careless grace, The breezes playing with his raven curls, The sunshine lighting up his gay bright face!

Suppose my hand had trembled? If it had, I would have fallen instead of him. You're white At the bare thought. Nay, here I am, quite well, And ready for the opera to-night. Ronconi plays, and I would like to see "Marie de Rohan" once or twice again. His acting as De Chevreuse is sublime; How he portrays the jealous husband's pain!

All husbands have not such a wife as you; Fair as the sun, and chaste as winter's moon! How very pale you still are, dearest wife! There is no danger of another swoon? How wrong I was to tell you I had fought; I think you've scarce recovered from the shock. One kiss upon your brow, and then I'll go; And pray be ready, love, at eight o'clock!

Autumnal Lyrics

ppoem| start=stanza| Leave us not yet. Still for a little space

Pause o'er the land that gladdens 'neath thy reign.

But vain our prayer. E'en now the herald winds

Sound the approach of Winter's icy train.

Spring into Summer ripens; Summer dies

In thy embrace, O golden-glowing Fall!

But Nature pauses with her last best gift:

O'er Autumn's bosom Winter folds the pall.

{_st}OCTOBER.

The sunset of the seasons glows around us,

And Autumn wanders musing through the bowers,

Dropping o'er mount and forest hues resplendent,

Once worn in pride by Summer's vanished flowers.

The Summer, slow retreating from the heavens,

Returns a space, earth's beauty to behold,

And through the mist of parting tears she sendeth

One last fond smile to haunts beloved of old.

Like the Egyptian queen in ancient story,

That garbed herself all royally to die,

The year around her folds her robes of beauty

And stands a queen beneath the pallid sky;

|end=stanza

ppoem| start=stanza| And round her regal form, like hushed attendants,

The forests stand in anguished moanings tost,

For 'neath her splendor heaves to death her bosom,

Smote by the aspic of th' untimely frost.

Like Casar, soon will come the chill December,

To gaze upon her form whence life is fled;

And the wild winds that wail around her dying

Will shriek in anguish o'er the bright Year dead.

{_st}NOVEMBER.

The day, new Niobe, has wept to death—

Gray stonelike clouds are piled above her tomb;

Like some wild weeper rushing forth distraught,

The east wind hurries, sobbing, through the gloom.

The old trees raise their skeleton arms to heaven,

Praying for sunshine, and the sky has none;

The sea is mourning for the Summer's death;

Far in the distance sounds his sullen moan.

But yester-e'en the woods in beauty stood;

The sun looked down on earth with veiléd rays;

Bright vestured Autumn walked amid the bowers,

And the shy maple blushed beneath his gaze.

|end=stanza

Gone now the glory. Through the naked boughs The storm-wind rushes with a sobbing moan; Stripped of his gold and crimson, Autumn stands, A chainéd captive, before Winter's throne.

A little longer, and the year shall lay A snowy slab above her bright son's head, And Winter write, with frozen hand and slow, "Here, slain by me, lies Autumn with the dead!"

Revelry

Richer with the vine's hot life Than the last we quaffed. Drink! till Mem'ry's phantoms pale Fade and disappear. Drink till I forget she's dead! Dead—and I am here!

My Baby

Now Summer's breath her soft hair stirs: Not yet a twelvemonth's life is hers; O baby, ours so short a space! What wond'rous gift of magic power, What royal crown, what golden dower, Could ever fill thy vacant place?

God, pluck not back thy little lower! O Monarch Death, thou hast a dower Of many a rare and radiant gem! Spare, spare to us our little pearl, Our dearest treasure, this fair girl; This one sweet blossom on Life's stem!

The Mask of Plaster

Thou didst behold o'er many a field Thy soaring eagle wave his plume, Until the sun of Austerlitz Went down in endless gloom— Went down o'er Waterloo, to rise Never again on earthly skies. To thee there never came a dawn, For thee there never beamed a star, Save when thine eye prophetic pierced The darkness, and beheld afar The day-star of thy race arise, As radiant as when of yore The shadow of thy purple spread Its mighty wings from shore to shore. Behold! thy race upon the throne! Thy tomb a nation's hallowed shrine! Thy name the battle-shout of France! Thy memory a dream divine! But thou art sleeping, and no voice again Will wake thee from thy slumber by the Seine; And this pale visage only to our eyes Reveals thy mortal guise.

No battle thunder swept thee to thy rest; No hostile bullet stilled thy mighty heart. The slow shafts of the tropic air Played the assassin's part.

Thou, conqueror of the world, didst pass away 'Mid enemies alone! (Thy prison a rock, thy jailer the wild sea!) A trailing willow and a nameless stone Were all their churlish hands could grant thy clay. Yet not unhonored went thou to thy sleep: The tempest shrieked thy death-knell o'er the deep. Heaven sent its thunder for a requiem, And thine avenger is Eternity!

Re-United

Do you wait above the stars, love, As I wait beneath their light? Ah, I know that you are waiting In your fair and distant home! We've a tryst now, O belovéd! Where no enemies can come.

You are dead, and I am dying, Very slowly, but at last. And I trust the death-veiled Future To redeem the mournful Past. Ne'er was pillow pressed so gladly As the one whereon I'm lying; For I know you'll greet my waking. You are dead, and I am dying!

Without and Within

Blest the distraught! To them come phantoms bright, Lighting with alien torch the darkened brain. Alas! alas! the melancholy thoughts! That follow ceaseless as the drops of rain.

In Vain

Safe—never to be wrung again By you, O fickle lover! Your wrongs to her knew never end Till earth's last bonds were riven; Your memory rose cold between Her parting soul and heaven.

Now vain your false and tardy grief; Vain your remorseful weeping; For she, whom only you deceived, Lies hushed in dreamless sleeping. Go—not beside that peaceful form Should lying words be spoken! Go, pray to God, "Be merciful As she whose heart I've broken!"

To. R. M. H.

For when have eyes of thine Their calm watch kept, Nor ever lost their smile The while I wept?

Come back, O love of mine! Come back again! Chase from my heart this wild And yearning pain. Bring back Love's golden light To Life's drear skies; Banish the bitter tears From these sad eyes. Here in one prayer I pour— Alas, in vain!— My heart's wild thirst for thee; Come back again!

O think of me, darling, As I think of you, All the long day, love, And all the night through. I slumber to dream of thee; Wake but to weep. I never forget thee, Not even in sleep.

God keep thee, my darling! God guard thee, mine own! As now thou dost wander Afar and alone. If loving could shield thee, Or prayers could avail, No grief should come near thee, No peril assail.

'Tis a week since the moment That saw thee depart; A week by my counting, A year by my heart. That heart holds one sorrow; With one hope doth burn: That grief is thine absence; That hope—thy return.

Ich Habe Geliebet

And forth into the world I bend my footsteps, Never, I trust, to see thy face again. I ask no vengeance from the avenging Future. Cold heart and shallow brain, go free, go free! I do not ask thee, in thy joyous hours, To blight thy gayety with thoughts of me!

Unbidden comes the day of retribution; Surely, though late, its sun shall o'er thee shine, When thou, with' worn-out grace and faded beauty, Would sell thy very soul for love like mine. And if the spirits of the ancient Sibyl My lip and soul to prophecy had mov'd, I could for thee foretell a doom no darker Than that which shall be thine—to live unloved.

And when the rose hue from thy cheek has faded, The gloss departed from thy golden hair; When e'en thy fondest flatterer—thy mirror, Bids thee confess thou art no longer fair; When the bright dreams of youth have left thee wholly, And thou, to muse upon the Past, art free; When friend and flatterer alike desert thee, Then is mine hour. Yes, then remember me!

Remember me! for I have loved thee truly, And would have loved thee to life's latest hour;

I would have strewn thy earthly path with roses (Mine all the thorns, so thou hadst but the flower). Yes, I have loved thee—take this last confession From one whose heart from aught save scorn is free, Who deems thee now too pitiful for hatred: I shall forget! but thou—remember me!

In Memory of H. A. C.

By thy pure life and hero death How eloquent a preacher! Vain were your countless gifts, O Earth! To teach his heart repining When on his fading life he saw The dawn of Heaven shining.

Unstained, he rendered up to God His life's unopened blossom; Temptation's many-pointed darts Fell pointless from his bosom. All gifts this world of ours hath To his young life were given, Till God on that pure heart bestowed His last, best blessing—Heaven.

Take him, O Earth! No nobler heart Lies cold within thy grasping. Take him, O Heaven! Never soul More stainless sought thy clasping Than his, who, when life's light grew dim And death's dark shades were falling, Had messages for countless friends, No enemies recalling.

O Mother! bowed beneath this grief, The first your boy e'er gave you,

Vain is your tearful sympathy From one wild pang to save you! Look up to God. His hand one day That loved one shall restore you, Whose dying words were, "It is best That I should die before you."

Too Late

Husband!" she cries, "let us bless the fate That tells us the truth, though late, so late!

I thought that I was an unlov'd bride, Wedded for wealth and sold to pride.

Yet (closer, O husband, bend your brow!) I lov'd you long, and I love you now!"

She hides on his heart her paling face; He folds her close in a long embrace.

Slowly he lays her from off his breast Back to her long and her dreamless rest.

He bends and kisses the placid brow, Whiter than marble and cold as snow.

He whispers low, "The kiss now given Return to me when we meet in heaven!"

Alas! the secret of many a fate These two words tell, "Too late, too late!"

Leonora d'Esté

And beside the lowly pallet, pale, with silver-sprinkled hair, Bends the form I knew so noble, bends the brow I thought so fair. Gone the mien erect and princely; gone the glance so high and brave! Tasso, Tasso, do not curse me; I was powerless to save! O Alfonso! cruel brother, deaf to every human prayer, Wouldst thou grant but one petition, hear me once in my despair! Wouldst thou promise but to free him when this life of mine were done, He should walk this earth in freedom ere arose to-morrow's sun.

I must trust thee to the Future. Time, who still avenges all, Very surely shall avenge thee, and on me his wrath will fall. Future generations, bending o'er thy grand majestic song, Shall amid their praise find curses for the workers of thy wrong. They will curse the fatal beauty that has wrought thee so much woe; And my life-long love and sorrow none will ever heed or know.

Ay, the steps of future ages shall thy cell seek as a shrine! Generations will lament thee. Who will reck these tears of mine? Not e'en thou, O lov'd so vainly! thou wilt deem thyself forgot! Thou wilt think my love has withered in the sunshine of my lot. Would that thou couldst but behold me when my tears fall down like rain! When I cry aloud to Heaven in mine agony in vain. Or, couldst see me at the altar, when I bend my knee in prayer— "Save him, God!" the voiceless accents of my anguish and despair. God is deaf, and man is cruel; there are none to hear or save. Thou wilt only leave thy prison through the portals of the grave; And perchance in yonder heaven we will meet, and I shall tell How I loved thee, Unforgotten, loved thee ever, and how well!

And they say that I am dying! Death comes not to such as I: Life is strong in wretched bosoms; 'tis the blest alone that die.

Roses fade and fall forever in the summer's sunny air; Withered leaves defy the tempest as they cling to branches bare. Hark! the music rings exultant, pealing forth a gayer strain! I must back into the revel; I must wear the mask again. Smile, O lips, and hide the anguish ye may never dare to speak. Shine, O eyes, and, like my jewels, flash the while my heart doth break. Flush, O cheek, to deeper roses; let me bravely act the lie; Let me smile, and jest, and revel, till God hears me, and I die.

Jealousy

Your desk before me shattered lies, And now I hold with frenzied clasp Those hidden letters, treasured long; Your secret is within my grasp. Now I shall know if you were pure As yonder snow before it fell; Or fouler than the pitchy smoke That reeks from out the depths of hell!

My hand is on the folded page Wherein your life-long secret lies; And yet I pause before I slay The Past and all its memories! O loved one! loved so long and well! It may be in an instant more That I shall loathe thee with a hate Surpassing e'en my love of yore. And I, perchance, to-morrow morn Will stand beside the churchyard sod, With shame and curses in my heart:— Never, never—so help me God!

The embers glow upon the hearth; I give into their red embrace Your treasured letters folded still, Pale ashes now their only trace;

And may this act atone, O love! For all my jealous doubts and fears, That darkened so with misery Our wedded life these long sad years. I trust you now, alas! too late! Rest, with this last kiss on your brow; If you have sinn'd, God knows, not I! To me for aye you're spotless now.

The Last Kiss

So—now go and close the door; I shall never see thee more; When I'm done with life and pain Come and kiss me once again.

The Voyage of Life

And the rocky banks re-echo To the burden of our song: "Life's a struggle, life's a battle, And its warriors are we." So we sing the while we're drifting Ever downward to the sea.

It is evening on the waters, And our song has died away. We are weary of the sunlight; We are weary of the day. "Give us rest, and give us mem'ry! Life, we crave no more from thee!" We are drifting, we are drifting Ever downward to the sea.

It is night upon the waters, And the gilded bark is gone; And the moonlight's veil of silver Lies upon the waves alone. Round the river's mouth the ocean Moans in mournful melody; We have drifted, we have drifted Downward, downward to the sea.

A Winter Tale

One year has pass'd and two: Again beneath the yew The silent stars behold those women fair. Each with cold lips and pale Again repeats her tale. Triumphant words, not sad, now thrill the air.

One told of what she'd done, Of love spurn'd soon as won; Of death self-dealt while manhood's pulse beat high. The other, with a smile That never changed the while, Said, "He who wronged you lives and longs to die!"

Such laughter then arose As Hell, not Heaven, knows, Wild exultation with fierce hatred blended. Into the darkness then They passed from human ken, Whither I know not. Lo, my tale is ended!

Faust to Marguerite

And then I wake to know thou art no more; That peace and hope and love for me are o'er, Marguerite!

And thou didst love me—yes, the last on earth, For mortal love shall nevermore be mine. What have I left me now? Remorse, despair— The fiend's companionship instead of thine. My past all sin; my present—misery; Hell for my future. Woe, ah, woe is me! Marguerite!

There's blood upon my hands; it does not weigh So heavy upon my soul as thine undoing. His sword met mine—his rage aroused my wrath! What hadst thou done that I should work thy ruin? No compact 'twixt us did the demon need; My soul was lost by that one unblest deed, Marguerite!

And even Death will re-unite us not. That last hope sad hearts cherish is not mine. 'The awful gulf that never may be cross'd Will separate for aye my soul from thine. Yet one blest thought amid despair doth live: If Heav'n will not, thou wilt, I know, forgive, Marguerite!

One other ray of light illumes my lot, One dream of mercy on my heart is graved— The mem'ry of that strange mysterious voice, Heard in the last dread moment, "She is saved!" Yes, I can bear my fate, whate'er it be; Let hell be mine, if heav'n has place for thee, Marguerite!

Pray for me, Marguerite! I am so lost And so accurs'd my lips are locked from prayer. Canst thou not give me back to hope and Heav'n, Me, who but gave thee ruin and despair? In yonder sky, where thou dost wander free, Ask God if there be mercy still for me, Marguerite!

The Giving of the Goblet

tpp|THE GIVING OF THE GOBLET.| {sm} There was a king in Thule,

Faithful e'en to the grave;

To whom his lov'd one dying

A golden goblet gave!"—Goethe.

>><< Yes, I am dying, O my king, my husband!

The life thou'st blest is fading from my heart;

And one last gift my dying hand would proffer

Ere I from happiness and thee depart!

No saintly relic that thou mayst, when kneeling

At holy shrine, unto thy reft heart press;

No fond love-token to thy sad gaze sacred

Amid thine hours of mournful loneliness.

Nor yet a sword, to flash protecting lightning

Above thee when thy war-shout rends the air.

When death and danger, O belov'd, are near thee

Dost thou not think that I too will be there?

And when thou'rt kneeling at some holy altar,

My memory, I know, will with thee dwell;

|end=follow

And, 'mid the silence of thy lonely chamber, Thou wilt remember me, alas! too well.

But when the revel reigneth in the palace, When flames the torch and flows the wine-cup free, Thou mayst forget me! E'en amid thy feasting, O love! I still would have thee think of me!

Behold my gift—this golden-jewel'd goblet! Let it be sacred to thy lips alone! Drain it at every feast; and while thou'rt drinking, Remember me! thy loved, thy lost, thine own!

When comes the moment of our re-uniting, When on th' unknown shore I wait for thee, And when in dying one last draught thou cravest, Drink from this goblet then, and drink to me!

The King's Ride

Impeding e'en his horse's tread, Presses the joyous train; And Prussia's despot frowns his best, And shakes his stick in vain.

The frowning look, the angry tone, Are feigned, full well they know. They do not fear his stick—that hand Ne'er struck a coward blow.

"Be off to school, you boys!" he cries. "Ho! ho!" the laughers say, "A pretty king you not to know We've holiday to-day!"

And so upon that summer day, Those children at his side, The symbol of his nation's love, Did royal Frederick ride.

O Kings! your thrones are tott'ring now! Dark frowns the brow of Fate! When did you ride as rode that day King Frederick the Great?

An Old Story

In idle speech and careless mirth Her visits pass away. We talk of operas and balls, And what the world has said— Back to my heart I press the cry, "My friend—my friend is dead!"

Lo, I shall greet mine other dead In the eternal skies, But this lost love I shall regain Not e'en in Paradise. From the bright gates an echo comes Of words my soul hath said, "E'en here, where Death dwells not, to thee The friend thou lov'dst is dead."

So in the haunts of Memory A sacred grave I keep; I only know what moulders there, I only o'er it weep. O'er it my eyes have shed sad tears, O'er it my heart has bled: O worse than death is death in life— The friend I loved is dead!

At the Bal Mabille

I scarcely knew the face I loved A few brief months ago, For there was paint upon your cheek, A brand upon your brow.

Now I shall never seek you more, Whate'er your fate may be. I go to wait, where soon or late You'll surely come to me.

Though months and years may pass away Before we meet again, You will not fail to keep this tryst Beside the river Seine.

Dim then will be those shameless eyes, Those mocking lips be dumb; For I am keeper of La Morgue: I wait there till you come.

You will not come with painted cheeks, In flowers, gems, and moire. Good-night, O woman that I loved; Good-night, and au revoir.

Garden and Balcony

tpp|GARDEN AND BALCONY.| {_st}LOVER.

I have scaled the outer wall,

I have passed the secret gate,

Yonder shines the signal lamp,

There my love waits

{_st}HUSBAND.

No, my hate!

{_st}LOVER.

Stars, my dim and kindly guides,

Through the darkness of the night,

Veil your tell-tale brightness now

{_st}HUSBAND.

Look your last upon their light! |end=stanza

ppoem| start=stanza| {_st}LOVER.

Roses round her lattice twined

Wooing me with scented breath,

Hid behind your perfumed shade,

Love awaits me

{_st}HUSBAND.

No, 'tis Death!

Gretchen

And now my fame is spotless, Men call me fair to see. I would the river were my grave, Woe is me!

Elsinore

And, lo! the Prince of Denmark Now meets our gaze the while, With eyes whose saddest glances Are gladder than their smile,— Sublime in mournful beauty, As when he trod of yore, In majesty and mourning, The halls of Elsinore.

O rare and royal vision, That bids our eyes rejoice! The soul of Shakspeare's shaping Hath found a form and voice. And we, beholding, murmur, "Such was the guise he wore, Who deathless lives in Shakspeare, Who died at Elsinore."

O manhood worn and wasted By anguish and despair! O words whose mournful music Make sweet the haunted air! We seem the painted phantoms, This th' unreal shore, And there, beyond the footlights, The true world,—Elsinore.

The rest, "the rest is silence." The curtain's downward fall, A fair Art-vision given To Mem'ry,—that is all. And we, uprising, whisper, "Dull Life, to thee once more We come, from charméd dwelling In Shakspeare's Elsinore."

Wasted Love

And here some letters,—half a score,— A portrait, mine once, mine no more; For deeper lines my brow have crossed; A lock of hair,—but mine to-day To match its jet is all too gray— O love that I have lost!

And here, from out a letter's fold, There drops a ring of rayless gold, By quaintly graven letters cross'd: "Pensez à moi," the legend shines. You could not guard, O mocking lines! The love that I have lost.

O serpent soul and heart of stone! Think not for thee I make my moan, Thou, cold and blighting as the frost: I mourn the faith, I mourn the trust, That 'neath thy false breath shrank to dust— The love that I have lost.

In losing thee I have been blest: What were my lot had I possessed The wealth to pay thy soul's full cost? The mask had fallen soon or late; Nay, better far than such a fate, To lose as I have lost.

But come not here, O friends, to raise, With kindly words and well-meant phrase, The mocking Past's triumphant ghost! Nay, deeper than the soundless sea I would the sepulcher might be Of the love that I have lost.

Genesis, Chapter V.

And still another: "I was loved, I loved. I launched Life's bark on Love's enchanted tide; Heav'n smiled upon me from a woman's eyes,— Alas! I died."

And then another: "Round my mould'ring brow Still cling the roses withered in their pride; I grasped bright Pleasure's cup, but ere 'twas drained I died—I died!"

And then the vision vanished. Through the night The passing wind like one bereavéd sighed, And distant voices, far and fading, moaned, "We died—we died!"

My Destiny

O wondrous realm and fair! There Dante dwells, and there Goethe and Schiller wander hand in hand; There Milton's sightless eyes: Unsealed behold the skies— There Shakspeare reign the monarch of the land.

There exiled Hugo's heart Forgets in song its smart, And shapes new glories from its endless pain; There Longfellow's pure line Learns cadences divine, And fair dead Browning lives and sings again.

But I—in vain I knock, I cannot ope the lock; Hopeless I stand and hopelessly I wait: Yet many ne'er behold That mystic gate of gold; How blest am I to stand without the gate!

Although I ne'er may win The right to enter in To thy bright kingdom, Immortality! Yet to my raptured eyes Are giv'n its shining skies, The light, the loveliness of Poesy.

To me, to me belong The singers and the song, The wondrous visions from the fair Past sent; And though I ne'er may stand Within th' enchanted land, Mine eyes behold it, and I am content.

Adam Lux

To-morrow I shall cross the dark, Mysterious gulf that 'twixt us lies, And I shall greet you with the light Of love undying in my eyes.

Yes we shall meet. Though men have said There is no world beyond the skies,— That angels, heaven, God himself, Are but the birth of priestly lies.

There is a heaven. I have seen Its radiance upon your brow, And somewhere, o'er its sapphire floors, Your spirit treads in glory now.

O eyes, whose glance ne'er fell on me! O lips, whose kiss I never knew! Shall glance and kiss at last be mine. In yon far world beyond the blue?

I trust in God. This hour supreme Brings back the olden faith and trust In Him, the God my childhood knew, The loving, merciful, and just.

Pass quickly, night, and bring the morn That comes to set my spirit free; Somewhere the other side of Death Charlotte Corday now waits for me!

After the War

Of a meeting—not like this— O the clasp and O the kiss That I dreamed of—only dreamed!

Take my hand, but speak no word, Let the silence round us flow. We shall never meet again, In the sunshine or the rain, All is over—let us go.

After the Ball

And when upon the awful scene Look down the tender eyes of night; While, pillowed on his prostrate horse, And pale beneath his raven hair, The old smile new upon his lip, The man I loved lies lifeless there.

He loved me as such men can love, The brave, the noble, and the true; He wooed me as a gallant heart And poet soul alone could woo. He told in burning words his love,— I listened with a startled smile,— And spoke of "friendship" and "regret, And yet I loved him all the while.

I loved him, but I loved still more Gay balls, flirtations, stylish dress. To hold these fast I spurned away That true heart's wealth of tenderness. He left me with a calm farewell,— Too fond to frown—too proud to sigh. I danced and flirted as of old, And he went forth to fight and die.

And still I tread the self-same round Of balls and operas and dress;

But o'er my life is creeping slow A mistlike pall of weariness. The gayest galop fails to stir To bounding life my languid feet; I listless drop my rich bouquet, My senses sickened by its sweet.

Cold lie the embers on the hearth, The dark without is growing gray, And I must woo reluctant sleep Before the dawning of the day. Back, ghostly Past, into your tomb! Close, eyes, upon th' unwelcome light! I am engaged for every dance At the grand ball to-morrow night.

Ophelia

She whispers low, "Alas! yet I believed He loved me once. I was the more deceived."

But, lo! strange sounds burst on the silent night. With sudden cries the startled echoes ring The clang of steel upon a stony wall, A shriek, a heavy fall, A frenzied cry of "Is't the king?" Then all is silence, and the solemn moon Shines on, nor veils her light. But pale Ophelia, in vague affright, Creeps startled to her couch, nor ends her prayers; And kindly slumber kisses off her tears, And for a season ends her woes and cares.