96

DEATH S DOINGS.

Priests, soldiers, madmen, England, France,Love, Folly, Death, all mingled in the dance.

What youth is he, whom Lucy's eye

Still follows so assiduously ?

Who ever tracks, from place to place,

That nymph in habit of a Grace,

Whose interchange of amorous glance

Bespeaks the future dalliance?

Oh ! hapless moment!—weight of woes!

'Tis Edmund, and him Lucy knows.

Can words the wounded feelings speakThat flushed with ire her angel cheek?Can language paint the deep distressWhich changed that flush to pallidness?Now swims the room before her eyes;Quenched seem the lights, the music dies;She feels a horror o'er her creep ;She sobs, but tries, in vain, to weep;But, uttering shrieks of wild dismay,Sinks to the ground and swoons away.

Is there a sight more full of woeIn the wide range of ills below,