EPILOGUE.

361

Why turn to clay that cheek on which was spread

The lily's whiteness with the rose's red ?

Why close those ruby lips—those deep-fring'd eyes ?

Why seize so young, so innocent a prize !—

Hold ! hold ! nor murmur at the wise decree

That set a lovely earth-born seraph free,

x\nd gave it bliss and immortality !

THE HYPOCHONDRIAC.

Immers'd in apathy and mental gloom,The wasted form of Hypochondria sits;

And as the phantoms flit around his room,

With fear he shakes—or falls, convuls'd, in fits!

The workings of his melancholy mindPresent horrific spectres to his sight;

He sees no friend, beneficent and kind—But life, to him, is one dark cheerless night.

O Melancholy ! bane of peace and health!

When thy sad reign contaminates the breast,Nor pleasure's glittering charms, nor love, nor wealth

Can give repose :—in death alone there's rest!