Must it be thus? Oh! must the cup that holds
The sweetest vintage of the vine of life
Taste bitter at the dregs? Is there no story,
No legend, no love-passage, which shall veil
Even as the bow which God hath bent in heaven
O’er the sad waste of mortal histories,
Promising respite to the rain of tears?”
A very pretty commencement to a pretty poem; the subject of which, however, must be considered as rather ticklish. It is curious that Edwin, as well as Matthew, has tried his hand at the painted window, which we wish he had not done, as the plagiary from Keats is evident:—
“They sleep: the spangled night is melting off,
And still they sleep: the holy moon looks in,