III.
Not riches, nor honors, nor place do I crave,
Ere they lay me at last to rest in the grave,
But oh, let me hear its music once more,
And drink from its depths while I kneel on its shore—
Then bear me away on the Death Angel's wing
While my lips are yet moist from the "Medical Spring!"
AN "IDYL" OF THE BALL.
I.
In reel, in waltz, in lancer's maze,
She moved with pretty air of grace,
And all the ball-room's brilliant blaze
Seemed borrowed brightness from her face!
O, winsome maid, demure and sweet!
I'll ne'er forget when first I met her,
And saw the dainty slippered feet
Glide o'er the floor at Linnietta!
II.
O, dreams of youth and beauty rare,
What rose-hued visions thou canst paint!
But none in loveliness compare
With her who seemed Love's patron saint!
Her pictured image haunts the mind,
And, oh, I never can forget her,
Nor rarer pleasure hope to find
Than dance with her at Linnietta!
III.