THE MIDNIGHT DREAM. GENTLY as flows Time's noiseless stream, Then thought returns to scenes of old, The smile, the tear, that infancy knew. Then wrapt in vision's awful gloom, With shades of the deathless the past to renew. WHAT DO'ST THOU HERE? O WHY should care disturb thy breast, These cares can never yield thee rest, Say, can this dross thy thoughts endear? Why should'st thou prize these fleeting joys, Tell, can they bring true pleasure near? Tell me, my soul, "What do'st thou here?" Why should'st thou mourn thy lot unkind, Is HE not all? is heaven not dear? Say, weeping soul, "What do'st thou here? THE SMILE IN DEATH. AND MARKED THE MILD, ANGELIC AIR, THE RAPTURE OF REPOSE THAT'S THERE. Lord Byron. WHEN the last stern and trophied foe, The spirit frees from toils below, I've seen upon the marble brow The peaceful calm 'twas wont to wear; Though damps had gathered o'er it now, Though death had stamped his image there. Say, O my soul, whence is the smile, That sweetly doth our wo beguile, 'Tis when,-like evening's murmuring breeze, That low and mournful steals along, And softly sighing 'mid the trees, Celestial sounds glide on the ear, TO DECEMBER. FAREWELL, December, cheerless as thou art, Farewell, December, child of winter, stern, Farewell, December; and with thee, the year, What hopes and fears, what schemes of future bliss, Have sparkled on the past, with fairy gleam: Futile those schemes, and false each hope, for this Brief life is but the shadow of a dream. |