Pluck no more red roses, maidens, Leave the lilies in their dew; Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens, Dusk, oh, dusk the hall with yew! --Shall I seek, that I may scorn her, Her I loved at eventide? Shall I ask, what faded mourner Stands, at daybreak, weeping by my side?... Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens! Dusk the hall with yew! _THE VOICE._ As the kindling glances, Queen-like and clear, Which the bright moon lances From her tranquil sphere At the sleepless waters Of a lonely mere, On the wild whirling waves, mournfully, mournfully, Shiver and die; As the tears of sorrow Mothers have shed-- Prayers that to-morrow Shall in vain be sped When the flower they flow for Lies frozen and dead-- Fall on the throbbing brow, fall on the burning breast, Bringing no rest; Like bright waves that fall With a lifelike motion On the lifeless margin of the sparkling ocean; A wild rose climbing up a mouldering wall; A gush of sunbeams through a ruined hall; Strains of glad music at a funeral,-- So sad, and with so wild a start To this deep-sobered heart, So anxiously and painfully, So drearily and doubtfully, And, oh! with such intolerable change Of thought, such contrast strange, O unforgotten voice, thy accents come, Like wanderers from the world’s extremity, Unto their ancient home! In vain, all, all in vain, They beat upon mine ear again,-- Those melancholy tones so sweet and still; Those lute-like tones which in the bygone year Did steal into mine ear; Blew such a thrilling summons to my will, Yet could not shake it; Made my tost heart its very life-blood spill, Yet could not break it. _YOUTH’S AGITATIONS._ When I shall be divorced, some ten years hence, From this poor present self which I am now; When youth has done its tedious vain expense Of passions that forever ebb and flow: Shall I not joy youth’s heats are left behind, And breathe more happy in an even clime? Ah, no! for then I shall begin to find A thousand virtues in this hated time! Then I shall wish its agitations back, And all its thwarting currents of desire; Then I shall praise the heat which then I lack, And call this hurrying fever, generous fire; And sigh that one thing only has been lent To youth and age in common,--discontent. _THE WORLD’S TRIUMPHS._