Is life a boon? If so? it must befal That Death, whene'er he call, Must call too soon. Though fourscore years he give, Yet one would pray to live Another moon! What kind of plaint have I, Who perish in July? I might have had to die, Perchance, in June! Is life a thorn? Then count it not a whit! Man is well done with it; Soon as he's born He should all means essay To put the plague away: And I, war-worn, Poor captured fugitive, My life most gladly give-- I might have had to live Another morn! A MIRAGE. Were I thy bride, Then the whole world beside Were not too wide To hold my wealth of love-- Were I thy bride! Upon thy breast My loving head would rest, As on her nest The tender turtle dove-- Were I thy bride! This heart of mine Would be one heart with thine, And in that shrine Our happiness would dwell-- Were I thy bride! And all day long Our lives should be a song: No grief, no wrong Should make my heart rebel-- Were I thy bride! The silvery flute, The melancholy lute, Were night owl's hoot To my low-whispered coo-- Were I thy bride! The skylark's trill Were but discordance shrill To the soft thrill Of wooing as I'd woo-- Were I thy bride! The rose's sigh Were as a carrion's cry To lullaby Such as I'd sing to thee, Were I thy bride! A feather's press Were leaden heaviness To my caress. But then, unhappily, I'm not thy bride! A MERRY MADRIGAL. Brightly dawns our wedding day; Joyous hour, we give thee greeting! Whither, whither art thou fleeting? Fickle moment, prithee stay! What though mortal joys be hollow? Pleasures come, if sorrows follow: Though the tocsin sound, ere long, Ding dong! Ding dong! Yet until the shadows fall Over one and over all, Sing a merry madrigal-- Fal la! Let us dry the ready tear; Though the hours are surely creeping, Little need for woeful weeping, Till the sad sundown is near. All must sip the cup of sorrow-- I to-day and thou to-morrow: This the close of every song-- Ding dong! Ding dong! What, though solemn shadows fall, Sooner, later, over all? Sing a merry madrigal-- Fal la! THE LOVE-SICK BOY. When first my old, old love I knew, My bosom welled with joy; My riches at her feet I threw; I was a love-sick boy! No terms seemed too extravagant Upon her to employ-- I used to mope, and sigh, and pant, Just like a love-sick boy!