92

PEATH S DOINGS.

Scandal, the fulsome flatteryOf those who prey on vanity,Dress, news, the opera, the play,Fill'd Lucy's hours from day to day.

But, ah! no more the blushing roseOf health upon her soft cheek glows;For Death, beneath whose blasting lowerAlready drooped the fragile flower,Had glared on her. The toilet nighTended he oft assiduously;And whispering soft, as Bridget dare,What slight habiliments to wear,What rouge the faded cheek could dyeIn mock of Nature's mastery,On her fair bosom breathed:—the air,Envenomed, chilled the current thereOf life's warm flood, and its fell loadLeft in that bosom to corrode.Poor Lucy! weetless of thy fate,Like bird by serpent fascinate,Pleasure allures thy careless heart,But rankles there the poison's smart!