His shrivell'd hand was wet with tears she pour'd, alas! in vain,
And it trembled like an autumn leaf beneath the beating rain.
I've seen her since that fatal morn—her golden fetters rest
As e'en the weight of incubus, upon her aching breast.
And when the victor, Death, shall come to deal the welcome blow,
He will not find one rose to swell the wreath that decks his brow:
For oh! her cheek is blanch'd by grief which time may not assuage,—
Thus early Beauty sheds her bloom on the wintry breast of Age.
Our commendation of the "Keepsake" might be extended much further, were we to consult our inclination to do justice to its high character. With so lavish an expenditure and such an array of talent as we have shown it to contain, to wonder at its success,
Were nothing but to waste night, day, and time.