By T- M-EE, Esq.
Oh, {150}weep for the hours, when the little blind boy
Wove round me the spells of his Paphian bower;
When I dipped my light wings in the nectar of joy,
And soared in the sunshine, the moth of the hour!
From beauty to beauty I passed, like the wind;
Now fondled the lily, now toyed with the rose;
And the fair, that at morn had enchanted my mind,
Was forsook for another ere evening's close.
I sighed not for honour, I cared not for fame,
While Pleasure sat by me, and Love was my guest;
They twined a fresh wreath for each day as it came,
And the bosom of Beauty still pillowed my rest:
And the harp of my country--neglected it slept--
In hall or by greenwood unheard were its songs;
From Love's Sybarite dreams I aroused me, and swept
Its chords to the tale of her glories and wrongs,
but weep{151} for the hour!--Life's summer is past,
And the snow of its winter lies cold on my brow;
And my soul, as it shrinks from each stroke of the blast,
Cannot turn to a fire that glows inwardly now.
No, its ashes are dead--and, alas! Love or Song
No charm to Life's lengthening shadows can lend,
Like a cup of old wine, rich, mellow, and strong,
And a seat by the fire _tête-à-tête_ with a friend.
[Illustration: 164]