blind eyes loathing turn from all The lovely sins age curses to recall? Let me die young!—sweet sinner, dry thy tears! Yes, let the flower be gathered in its bloom! And thou, young genius, with the brows of gloom, Quench thou life's torch, while yet the flame is strong! Even as the curtain falls; while still the scene Most thrills the hearts which have its audience been; As fleet the shadows from the stage—and long When all is o'er, lingers the breathless throng! 

           THE INFANTICIDE. Hark where the bells toll, chiming, dull and steady, The clock's slow hand hath reached the appointed time. Well, be it so—prepare, my soul is ready, Companions of the grave—the rest for crime! Now take, O world! my last farewell—receiving My parting kisses—in these tears they dwell! Sweet are thy poisons while we taste believing, Now we are quits—heart-poisoner, fare-thee-well! Farewell, ye suns that once to joy invited, Changed for the mould beneath the funeral shade; Farewell, farewell, thou rosy time delighted, Luring to soft desire the careless maid, Pale gossamers of gold, farewell, sweet dreaming Fancies—the children that an Eden bore! Blossoms that died while dawn itself was gleaming, Opening in happy sunlight never more. Swanlike the robe which innocence bestowing, Decked with the virgin favors, rosy fair, In the gay time when many a young rose glowing, Blushed through the loose train of the amber hair. Woe, woe! as white the robe that decks me now—     The shroud-like robe hell's destined victim wears; Still shall the fillet bind this burning brow—     That sable braid the Doomsman's hand prepares! Weep ye, who never fell-for whom, unerring, The soul's white lilies keep their virgin hue, Ye who when thoughts so danger-sweet are stirring, Take the stern strength that Nature gives the few! Woe, for too human was this fond heart's feeling—     Feeling!—my sin's avenger 3 doomed to be; Woe—for the false man's arm around me stealing, Stole the lulled virtue, charmed to sleep, from me. Ah, he perhaps shall, round another sighing     (Forgot the serpents stinging at my breast), Gayly, when I in the dumb grave am lying, Pour the warm wish or speed the wanton jest, Or play, perchance, with his new maiden's tresses, Answer the kiss her lip enamored brings, When the dread block the head he cradled presses, And high the blood his kiss once fevered springs. Thee, Francis, Francis 4, league on league, shall follow The death-dirge of the Lucy once so dear; From yonder steeple dismal, dull, and hollow, Shall knell the warning horror on thy ear. On thy 

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