See'st thou yon withered tree,
Which stretches towards the sea,
Its long and ghastly arms--
Does it not say to thee,
How speedily shall flee,
Thy now so envied charms.
That forehead high
In the dust shall lie,
And that soft dark eye
Shall be shrivelled and dry;
And those pearly teeth,
Shall be trodden beneath,
The foot of the idle passer-by.
* * * * *
Change the subject, change the measure,
Sing not of death--let life and pleasure
Be the theme of Poet's lay;
Our earth contains full many a treasure--
Let us seek them while we may.
Fill the glass with yellow juice,
Of Rhine's old banks, the rich produce;
Or let the ruby claret flow,
Or Portugal's dark streams unloose--
They all bring joy and banish woe.
Let not woman enter here,
Woman brings but pain and care,
Woman smiles but to deceive,
In woman's tears let none believe.
Love is folly--fill the glass,
In mirth and glee, the hours we'll pass.
The smiling vine alone is true,
The grape's pure tears none ever rue.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.