DEATH, THE SAGE, AND THE FOOL.

327

VIII.

Enthusiast—impious boaster,—think'st the earth

In gladness yields to summer's hot embrace,Only to lengthen thy impassioned mirth ;

So thou, exalted in thy pride of place,Deem thyself only favoured of thy race?

The while, to waste is thine sole idle care,In bubbled fancies, youth and manhood's grace;

And, having dreamt of pleasure—new, bright, fair,In rapture wild thou snatchest,—and Death's hand isthere!

IX.

Bold madman—fool,—save bauble, crest, and bell!

Nurtured hadst thou that seed kind Heaven hathsownWithin thy bosom,—and who—who shall tell

But it to glowing vigour might have grown,And yielded richer fruit than e'er hath blown

Within the Hesperian dragon-warded meads ?But years on swallow-wings have rapid flown,

Whilst thou artyetto learn that there must needs,To immortalize thy name, be bright immortal deeds !