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DEATH S DOINGS.

II.

Yet, though—albeit, in his wild career,

He join in midnight dance and revelry,—And doth, like tipsy pilot, madly steer

His reeling bark through Passion's ruthless sea,—Uncheer'd, unlustred by bright Beauty's eye,

Long wont to shine, and kindly guidance give—(A constant cynosure from laughing sky),

Yet hath been his to some (sad) purpose live,And have a goal in life, though not a name survive!

III.

But 'tis not thus with cold and cloistered Sage,

Wasting in calculating dreams his day;Till his shorn temples are besprent by age,

And manhood's sunshine yields to evening gray!One constant task his rolling years display,—

His task of visioned mystics ; whilome healthFades like a morning mist away—away,—

And grim Death stalks with solemn-pacingstealth,To mar his full-blown hopes,—his heart's long-hoarded wealth!