The stiffnecks, haste! annihilate! make ruin all complete--
And, slaves, bring in fresh roses--what odor is more sweet?

H.L. WILLIAMS



REGRET.

_("Oui, le bonheur bien vite a passe.")_

[Bk. V. ii., February, 1821.]


Yes, Happiness hath left me soon behind!
Alas! we all pursue its steps! and when
We've sunk to rest within its arms entwined,
Like the Phoenician virgin, wake, and find
Ourselves alone again.

Then, through the distant future's boundless space,
We seek the lost companion of our days:
"Return, return!" we cry, and lo, apace
Pleasure appears! but not to fill the place
Of that we mourn always.

I, should unhallowed Pleasure woo me now,
Will to the wanton sorc'ress say, "Begone!
Respect the cypress on my mournful brow,
Lost Happiness hath left regret--but _thou_