HYP0CH0NDR1ANA.

115

Rain, rain, eternal rain descending,

My weather-glass no change portending;—

The black wet mass of yesterday

In loosening torrents drowns the May!

Oh, happy climate! beauteous Spring!

Last Winter was the self-same thing.

Why not at once give all the slip ?—

Yon sleepy potion tempts my lip:

The waning hour-glass seems to say,

" Thy sand, like mine, has drained away;'

And by the Death's head on the ground

Again my straining sight is bound.—

One glass suffices—shall I try,

And shift this clinging agony 1 —

Shall I * * *

Here the desponding MS. from which these lines are copiedabruptly breaks off; and we are left in doubt whether the wisesuggestion of the foul fiend Flibbertigibbet was adopted by thewriter or not.

J. o.