With all a Poet's passion, and have wish'd
That years might never pluck their graceful smiles—
How often Death, as with a viewless wand,
Has touch'd the scene, and witch'd it to a tomb!
Where Beauty dwindled to a ghastly wreck,
And spirits of the Future seem'd to cry,—
Thus will it be when Time has wreak'd revenge.
MELANCHOLY.
When mantled with the melancholy glow
Of eve, she wander'd oft: and when the wind,