But which falls from the spirit in its flight

Like a prophetic mantle upon Time.

[Pg 10]

Pleasure! O World! in thine insanity

Thou sinkest Soul into a poor buffoon,

Garbëd in tinsel and false ornament

To play its antics on the stage of life,

A thing for fools to laugh at in their mirth.

Thou sat'st thy lust upon the sapless husks

That strew the highways of this pilgrimage,

Closing thine eyes unto their emptiness,

And out of folly turning sour to sweet.

Hast thou the joy that nature's converse sheds

Thro' all the pulses of the quiet soul?

The gentle calm that like a whispered song

Steals o'er the sense with sweetest languishment?

Hast thou the magic of the Beautiful,

Wreathing about thy spirit evermore,

In sunshine and in shadow; when the stars

Gather around the azure dome of heaven,

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