178 THOMAS H. SHREVE, [1830-40. How tight you stick ! I'm not in play — You melancholy thing ! I'm young yet — and, full many a day, I'll kiss the fresh-cheeked morns of May, And woo the blushing Spring. Go blossom on some grandsire's head — Ye waste your fragrance here. I'd rather wear a wig that's red, With flaming locks, and radiance shed Around me, far and near. I am not married — and gray hair Looks bad on bachelors. A smooth, un wrinkled brow I wear ; My teeth are sound — rheumatics rare — Therefore gray hairs are bores. I want to stand upon the shore Of matrimony's sea, And watch the barks ride proudly o'er. Or go to wreck 'mid breakers' roai", Ere Hymen launches me. But if my hair should change to gray, I cannot safely stand. And view the sea, and think of spray, Or flirt among the girls who play, On wedded life's white strand. My neck is quite too tick'lish yet To wear the marriage yoke ! And while my hair is black as jet. My heart can smoke Love's calumet, And not with grief's be broke. Not long ago I was a boy — I can't be old so soon ! My heart of maiden aunts is coy. And every pulse leaps wild with joy. On moonlight nights in June. No spectacles surmount my nose — My blood is never cold — I have no gout about my toes — And every thing about me shows 'Tis false — I am not old ! DIRGE OF THE DISAPPOINTED. 'Tis done ! and I must stand alone ! Unechoed is my sigh ; The star which late upon me shone. And hopes I fondly dreamed my own. Have fallen from on high. Ambition's strife, and wildering din, Were life to my unrest ; I bent my energies to win The wages of her faith and sin. And lost, and am unbless'd. In truth, I thought the wreath of fame Was green for me the while ; And o'er my soul a vision came, Of a stern conflict and a name. And woman's priceless smile. And then, life was a summer sea — No cloud above it hung — Far o'er its sparkling waters free, Blithe strains, that woke my ecstacy. From fairy harps were flung. But shades have muffled up that sky. The sea is bright no more ; — And in the wild wind's sweeping by, Methinks I hear a demon's cry, That echoes on its shore. Vain is the boasted force of mind ; Wlien hope hath ta'en her flight ; Then memory is most unkind — And thought is as the dread whirlwind, That woi'ks on earth its blight. Then let the storm rn^^e round my head, Its spirits ride the blast : For since the dream of youtl is fled, The wild-flowers of my heart are dead. And happiness is past. I've learned that man may love too well The fiction of his heart :
