Again he sits within that room;
        All day he leans at that still board;
      None to bring comfort to his gloom,
        Or speak a friendly word. 
  Weakened with fear, lone, haunted by remorse,
  Poor, shattered wretch, there waits he that pale horse.

* * * * *

=_Richard Henry Wilde, 1789-._= (Manual, pp. 521, 501.)

=_330._= MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE.

  My life is like the summer rose
    That opens to the morning sky,
  But, ere the shades of evening close,
    Is scattered on the ground to die;
  Yet on that rose’s humble bed
  The softest dews, of night are shed,
  As if she wept such waste to see;
  But none shall drop a tear for me.

  My life is like the autumn leaf
    That trembles in the moon’s pale ray;
  Its hold is frail, its state is brief,
    Restless, and soon to pass away;
  But when that leaf shall fall and fade,
  The parent tree will mourn its shade,
  The winds bewail the leafless tree;
  But none shall breathe a sigh, for me.

  My life is like the print which feet
    Have left on Tampa’s desert strand;
  Soon as the rising tide shall beat,
    Their track will vanish from the sand;
  Yet, as if grieving to efface
  All vestige of the human race,
  On that lone shore loud moans the sea;
  But none shall thus lament for me.

* * * * *

=_James A. Hillhouse, 1789-1844._= (Manual, p. 487.)

From “Hadad.”

=_331._=

    Hadad. Confide in me. 
  I can transport thee, O, to a paradise
  To which this Canaan is a darksome span. 
  Beings shall welcome, serve thee, lovely as angels;
  The elemental powers shall stoop, the sea
  Disclose her wonders, and receive thy feet
  Into her sapphire chambers; orbed clouds
  Shall chariot thee from zone to zone, while earth,
  A dwindled, islet, floats beneath thee.  Every
  Season and clime shall blend for thee the garland. 
  The Abyss of time shall cast its secrets, ere
  The flood marred primal nature, ere this orb
  Stood in her station.  Thou shalt know the stars,
  The houses of eternity, their names,
  Their courses, destiny—­all marvels high.

    Tam. Talk not so madly.

* * * * *

From “The Judgment.”

=_332._=

  As, when from some proud capital that crowns
  Imperial Ganges, the reviving breeze
  Sweeps the dank mist, or hoary river fog
  Impervious mantled o’er her highest towers,
  Bright on the eye rush Bramah’s temples, capp’d
  With spiry tops, gay-trellised minarets,
  Pagods of gold, and mosques with burnish’d domes,
  Gilded, and glistening in the morning sun,
  So from the hill the cloudy curtains roll’d,