Up to the zenith mount!
Far into space—
Ah! all thy tears I count,
Sad, loving face.
Clasp not my garments so,
Love of my soul;
Clinging, you drag me low,
Where tortures roll.
Soil not my angel wing;
Keep not from rest;
How can I upward spring,
Clasped to thy breast?
Hold me not, lover—friend—
Earth I would fly;
Passion and torture end
In the blest sky!
Life brought but woe to me,
Even thy kiss
Gave me but agony—
Remorse with bliss!
Let go thy earthly hold—
Fain would I fly;
Voices with love untold
Call from on high.
Farewell—the dregs are drank
Of life’s sad cup;
It proved but poison rank;
Life’s lease is up!
N.P. WILLIS.
_OFF-HAND SKETCHES_.
Since my friend Morris joined me, we’ve been as busy as Wall street brokers in a gold panic—eyes and ears, and every sense filled with the novel sights and sounds that greet us on every side in this most delightful, charming, incomparably beautiful summer land.
Whom have we not seen, from Napoleon down to the last suicide?