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I wander down the noisy streets,
I enter crowded fanes,
I join in youthful revelries,
I give my fancy reins.
I say, “The years are flying fast,
And seen we scarce are here,
Before we reach eternal tombs;
For each the hour is near.”
I glance upon the lonely oak,
The patriarch of the wood,
And think, “He’ll live through my brief day,
He through my father’s stood.”
I fondly kiss the little child,
And, kissing, think, “Good-bye!
I’m giving up my place to you.
You bloom; ’tis mine to die.”
Thus every day, thus every hour,
I’m wont with thought to spend,
And strive to guess the birthday-date
Of my approaching end.
Ah! where will Fate send Death to me?
Abroad? in war? on deep?
Or will a neighbouring valley hold
My cold dust in its keep?
Yet, though I know my lifeless form
Must rot where’er I die,
I’d fondly wish near my loved home,
In my own land, to lie.
There, round the entrance to the grave,
Let young life freely play,
And careless Nature calmly smile
With ageless beauty gay!
ANACREONTIC.
We know the steed of mettle
By the breed-marks branded on it;
We know the haughty Highlander
By his plumed and towering bonnet;
And I know the happy lovers
By the love-light in their eyes,
Where, its tale of joyance telling,
The languid flame doth rise.
(TO HIS WIFE.)
No! not for me the wild tumultuous gladness,
The rapturous rush, the transports, and the madness,
The moans, the cries, the young Bacchante makes,
When, clinging close in coilings like a snake’s,
With wounding kiss, and gush of hot caresses,
For the last moments’ thrills she quiveringly presses.
Far dearer thou, my gentle one, to me,
And happy I—distracted more by thee—
When yielding to long prayers with gentle grace,
You press me softly in your meek embrace;
Modestly cold, to love with passion fraught
You scarce respond; you conscience seem of naught;
Yet warm and warmer glowing, till at last,
As ’twere against your will, you share my blast.