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Alas! good friend, what profit can you see
Lift not the painted veil which those who live
I knew one who had lifted it-he sought,
A widow bird sate mourning for her love
Upon a wintry bough; The frozen wind kept on above,
The freezing stream below.
There was no leaf upon the forest bare,
No flower upon the ground, And little motion in the air
Except the mill-wheel's sound.
TO E*** V***
MADONNA, wherefore bast thou sent to me
Sweet basil and mignionette ? Embleming love and health, which never yet In the same wreath might be.
Alas, and they are wet!
For never rain or dew
Such flagrance drew From plant or flower—the very doubt endears
My sadness ever new, The sighs I breathe, the tears I shed for thee.
Rough wind, that moanest loud
Grief too sad for song ; Wild wind, when sullen cloud
Knells all the night long; Sad storm, whose tears are vain, Bare woods, whose branches stain, Deep caves and dreary main,
Wail, for the world's wrong!
Vultures, who build your bowers
Many a day.
DIRGE FOR THE YEAR.
ORPHAN hours, the year is dead,
Come and sigh, come and weep!
For the year is but asleep.
As an earthquake rocks a corse
In its coffin in the clay,
Rocks the death-cold year to-day;
As the wild air stirs and
Rocks the year:-be calm and mild,
January grey is here,
Like a sexton by her grave;
March with grief doth howl and rave
January 1st, 1821.