So speak'st thou, friend, how stronger far than I;
As from Experience--that sure port serene--
Thou look'st; and straight, a coldness wraps the sky,
The summer glory withers from the scene,
Scared by the solemn spell; behold them fly,
The godlike images that seem'd so fair!
Silent the playful Muse--the rosy Hours
Halt in their dance; and the May-breathing flowers
Pall from the sister-Graces' waving hair.
Sweet-mouth'd Apollo breaks his golden lyre,
Hermes, the wand with many a marvel rife;--
The veil, rose-woven by the young Desire
With dreams, drops from the hueless cheeks of Life.
The world seems what it _is_--A Grave! and Love
Casts down the bondage wound his eyes above,
And _sees_!--He sees but images of clay
Where he dream'd gods; and sighs--and glides away.
The youngness of the Beautiful grows old,
And on thy lips the bride's sweet kiss seems cold;
And in the crowd of joys--upon thy throne
Thou sitt'st in state, and harden'st into stone.

* * * * *




CALEB STUKELY.

PART XII.