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Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!

Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!

By nature vile, ennobled but by name,

Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on- it honors none you wish to mourn:
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one, and here he lies.

EUTHANASIA.

WHEN Time, or soon or late, shall bring
The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead,
Oblivion! may thy languid wing
Wave gently o'er my dying bed!

No band of friends or heirs be there,
To weep, or wish, the coming blow:
No maiden, with dishevelled hair,
To feel, or feign, decorous woe.

But silent let me sink to Earth,

With no officious mourners near;
I would not mar one hour of mirth,
Nor startle friendship with a fear.

Yet Love, if Love in such an hour
Could nobly check its useless sighs,
Might then exert its latest power

In her who lives and him who dies.

'T were sweet, my Psyche! to the last Thy features still serene to see: Forgetful of its struggles past,

E'en Pain itself should smile on thee.

But vain the wish

- for Beauty still

Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath, And woman's tears, produced at will, Deceive in life, unman in death.

Then lonely be my latest hour,
Without regret, without a groan!

For thousands Death hath ceased to lower,
And pain been transient or unknown.

"Ay, but to die, and go," alas!

Where all have gone, and all must go!

To be the nothing that I was,

Ere born to life and living woe!

Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, Count o'er thy days from anguish free,

And know, whatever thou hast been,

"Tis something better not to be.

TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC SONG.

I ENTER thy garden of roses,
Beloved and fair Haidée,

Each morning where Flora reposes,
For surely I see her in thee.

Oh, lovely! thus low I implore thee,

Receive this fond truth from my tongue,

Which utters its song to adore thee,

Yet trembles for what it has sung; As the branch, at the bidding of Nature, Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree, Through her eyes, through her every feature, Shines the soul of the young Haidée.

But the loveliest garden grows hateful
When Love has abandoned the bowers;
Bring me hemlock - since mine is ungrateful,
That herb is more fragrant than flowers.
The poison, when poured from the chalice,
Will deeply embitter the bowl;

But when drunk to escape from thy malice,
The draught shall be sweet to my soul.

Too cruel! in vain I implore thee

My heart from these horrors to save: Will naught to my bosom restore thee? Then open the gates of the grave.

As the chief who to combat advances
Secure of his conquest before,

Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances,
Hast pierced through my heart to its core.
Ah, tell me, my soul! must I perish

By pangs which a smile would dispel?
Would the hope, which thou once bad'st me cherish
For torture repay me too well?

Now sad is the garden of roses,

Beloved but false Haidée!

Where Flora all withered reposes,

And mourns o'er thine absence with me.

ΤΟ

WELL! thou art happy, and I feel
That I should thus be happy too;
For still my heart regards thy weal
Warmly, as it was wont to do.

Thy husband's blest — and 't will impart
Some pangs to view his happier lot:
But let them pass-Oh! how my heart
Would hate him, if he loved thee not.

When late I saw thy favorite child,

I thought my jealous heart would break,
But when the unconscious infant smiled,
I kissed it for its mother's sake.

I kissed it, and repressed my sighs,
Its father in its face to see;
But then it had its mother's eyes,
And they were all to love and me.

Mary, adieu! I must away:

While thou art blest I'll not repine, But near thee I can never stay;

My heart would soon again be thine.

I deemed that time, I deemed that pride Had quenched at length my boyish flame, Nor knew, till seated by thy side,

My heart in all, save hope, the same.

Yet was I calm: I knew the time

My breast would thrill before thy look,
But now to tremble were a crime-
We met, and not a nerve was shook.

I saw thee gaze upon my face,

Yet meet with no confusion there. One only feeling could'st thou trace, The sullen calmness of despair.

Away! away! my early dream,

Remembrance never must awake;

Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream?

My foolish heart be still, or break.

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