ALL THINGS WILL DIE. CLEARLY the blue river chimes in its flowing Warmly and broadly the south winds are blowing One after another the white clouds are fleeting; Every heart this May morning in joyance is beating Yet all things must die. All things must die. Oh! vanity! Death waits at the door. See! our friends are all forsaking The wine and the merrymaking. We are call'd-we must go. Laid low, very low, In the dark we must lie. 8 ALL THINGS WILL DIE. The merry glees are still; The voice of the bird Nor the wind on the hill. Hark! death is calling While I speak to ye, The jaw is falling, The red cheek paling, The strong limbs failing; Ice with the warm blood mixing; The eyeballs fixing. Nine times goes the passing bell: Ye merry souls, farewell. The old earth Had a birth, As all men know, Long ago. And the old earth must die. So let the warm winds range, And the blue wave beat the shore; For even and morn Ye will never see Thro' eternity. All things were born. Ye will come never more, For all things must die. LEONINE ELEGIACS. LOW-FLOWING breezes are roaming the broad valley dimm'd in the gloaming: Thoro' the black-stemm'd pines only the far river shines. Creeping thro' blossomy rushes and bowers of roseblowing bushes, Down by the poplar tall rivulets babble and fall. Barketh the shepherd-dog cheerly; the grasshopper carolleth clearly; Deeply the wood-dove coos; shrilly the owlet halloos; Winds creep; dews fall chilly: in her first sleep earth breathes stilly: Over the pools in the burn water-gnats murmur and mourn. Sadly the far kine loweth: the glimmering water out floweth : Twin peaks shadow'd with pine slope to the dark hyaline. Low-throned Hesper is stayed between the two peaks; but the Naiad Throbbing in mild unrest holds him beneath in her breast. The ancient poetess singeth, that Hesperus all things bringeth, Smoothing the wearied mind: bring me my love, Rosalind. Thou comest morning or even; she cometh not morning or even. False-eyed Hesper, unkind, where is my sweet Rosa lind? SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS OF A SECOND-RATE SENSITIVE MIND. O GOD! my God! have mercy now. Of ignorance, I should require A sign! and if a bolt of fire Would rive the slumbrous summer noon While I do pray to Thee alone, Is not my human pride brought low? The boastings of my spirit still? The joy I had in my freewill All cold, and dead, and corpse-like grown? And what is left to me, but Thou, |