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DEATH S DOINGS.

Nor gales of fragrance and of life that cheerThe aching brow—relume the drooping eye—And fire the languid pulse. One stern pursuit—One master-passion master'd all—and DeathSmil'd inly as Consumption at his nodPoison'd the springs of life, and flush'd the cheekWith roses that bloom only o'er the grave;And in that eye, which once so mildly beam'd,Kindled unnatural fires!

Yet hope sustain'dHis sinking soul, and to the high rewardOf sleepless nights and watchful days—and scornOf pleasure, and the stern contempt of ease,Pointed exultingly. But Death, who lovesTo blast Hope's fairest visions, and to dash,In unsuspected hour, the cup of blissFrom man's impatient lip—with horrid glanceMark'd the young victim, as with flutt'ring stepAnd beating heart, and cheek with treach'rous

bloomSuffus'd, he press'd where Science op'd the gatesOf her high temple.