With lightning's speed he hurri'd forth
To tell the dismal tale,
And soon were gather'd sorrowing friends
From mountain, hill, and dale.
Sad was the fun'ral wail that rose
From that infected hall;
Nought could the different forms define,
But Fashion's slimpsey pall.
And there they rais'd one common tomb,
And left them to their sleep,
'Till Christ's loud trump shall wake the dead
From slumber, long and deep.
The marble monument they rais'd
Doth this instruction bear:
"The things of earth pass soon away,
To meet your God prepare."
Many voices from the dead,
Here bid you well beware;
Tho' youth may bloom upon your cheek,
Still, still for death prepare.
The flowing nectar that had grac'd
The centre of the whole,
And so enlivened every guest,
Had death within the bowl.
Some small ingredient, when 'twas fix'd,
Was left by a mistake,
And others were together mix'd,
That active poison make.
To the Maiden
Maiden, have not the joys of earth
Prov'd fleeting, and of little worth?
And when the summer sun rode high,
Have clouds ne'er flitted o'er the sky?
Has Hope ne'er sprung beside thy way,
And blossom'd only to decay?
Has Friendship never chang'd her tone,
And 'woke a sigh for pleasures gone?
Has Love ne'er shed his fitful gleam
Across thy path--then hid his beam?
Hast thou ne'er felt the solemn truth--
That palsied age must steal o'er youth;
And that the auburn tresses gay
Must soon be chang'd for mournful gray?
Has sickness never pal'd the rose,
That on the cheek of beauty glows,
And ghastly death, with funeral gloom,
Oft call'd the lovely to the tomb?
Ah, maiden, yes, that tell-tale sigh,
The downcast glances of thine eye,
Say that thy heart is but the tomb
Of hopes that wither'd in their bloom;--
Say that, where all things else decay,
Thy fragile form must pass away.
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