Too brief even to its votaries seem
The fleeting days its charms that prove!
Thou wouldst that in the mocking strife
I waste my last frail breath of life—
I would that breath preserve—to love!
THE DYING POET.
FROM THE FRENCH OF ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE.
Broken, while mantling yet, my cup of life;
The breath in sighs retained and feeble strife
No grief of mourning friends can now delay;