But if, debas'd by gross desire,
It plunges in the poisonous bowl,
That flame must sicken and expire,
And leave the clay without a soul.
Slow months of toil in caverns cold,
Thy labyrinthine home prepare,
But man, to whirlwind passion sold,
Makes homeless those who trust his care,
From crime to crime, in downward stage,
By foul Intemperance darkly driven,
He forfeits with demoniac rage,
The peace of Earth and hope of Heaven.
DEATH OF A YOUNG WIFE.
Why is the green earth broken? Yon tall grass
Which in its ripeness woo'd the mower's hand,
And the wild rose, whose young buds faintly bloom'd,
Why are their roots uptorn? Why swells a mound
Of new-made turf among them?
Ask of him
Who in his lonely chamber weeps so long
At morning's dawn and evening's pensive hour,
Whose bosom's planted hopes might scarcely boast
More firmness, than yon riven flower of grass.
Yet hath not Memory stores whereon to feed,
When Joy's young harvest fails as clings the bee
To the sweet calyx of some smitten flower?
—Still is remembrance,—grief. The tender smile
Of young, confiding Love, its winning tones,
