220 High in the Future's towers, Withered hopes on hopes are spread, Dying joys choked by the dead, Will serve your beaks for prey DIRGE FOR THE YEAR. ORPHAN hours, the year is dead, Come and sigh, come and weep! Merry hours, smile instead, For the year is but asleep. As an earthquake rocks a corse So White Winter, that rough nurse, For your mother in her shroud. As the wild air stirs and sways January grey is here, Like a sexton by her grave; March with grief doth howl and rave January 1st, 1821. SONNET I. YE hasten to the dead! What seek ye there, Of the idle brain, which the world's livery wear? Thou vainly curious mind which wouldest guess With such swift feet life's green and pleasant path, A refuge in the cavern of grey death? Oh heart, and mind, and thoughts! What thing do you Hope to inherit in the grave below? SONNET II. POLITICAL GREATNESS. NOR happiness, nor majesty, nor fame, Nor peace, nor strength, nor skill in arms or arts, SONNET III. ALAS! good friend, what profit can you see |