THE PAINTER'S LAST PASSION.
A hectic hue is on my feverish cheek,
And slowly throbs my pulse—but it will cease;
And cease, too, will the visions instinct,
Impalpable, and deep, that haunt my soul!
Death, who can dash the chalice from the lips
Of Pleasure's votary, and hush the lyre
While poetry is breathing on its strings;
Death, who can quench the spirit which portrays
Beauty's resemblance on the marble urn,