Shall be sifted never more!
The Tankard.
Sitting in my lonely chamber, in this dreary, dark December,
Gazing on the whitening ashes of my fastly-fading fire,
Pond’ring o’er my misspent chances with that grief which time enhances—
Misdirected application, wanting aims and objects higher,—
Aims to which I should aspire.
As I sat thus wond’ring, thinking, fancy unto fancy linking,
In the half-expiring embers many a scene and form I traced—