When I was young, the Sybils pledged eternal rule to thee; That Time himself would lay his bones before thy unbent knee. Ha! ha! how brief indeed the space ere this "immortal star" Shall be consumed in its own glow, and vanished--oh, how far! How lovely conflagrations look when night is utter dark! The youth who fired Ephesus' fane falls low beneath my mark. The pangs of people--when I sport, what matters?--See them whirl About, as salamanders frisk and in the brazier curl. Take from my brow this poor rose-crown--the flames have made it pine; If blood rains on your festive gowns, wash off with Cretan wine! I like not overmuch that red--good taste says "gild a crime?" "To stifle shrieks by drinking-songs" is--thanks! a hint sublime! I punish Rome, I am avenged; did she not offer prayers Erst unto Jove, late unto Christ?--to e'en a Jew, she dares! Now, in thy terror, own my right to rule above them all; Alone I rest--except this pile, I leave no single hall. Yet I destroy to build anew, and Rome shall fairer shine-- But out, my guards, and slay the dolts who thought me not divine. The stiffnecks, haste! annihilate! make ruin all complete-- And, slaves, bring in fresh roses--what odor is more sweet? H.L. WILLIAMS REGRET. _("Oui, le bonheur bien vite a passé.")_ [Bk. V. ii., February, 1821.] Yes, Happiness hath left me soon behind! Alas! we all pursue its steps! and when We've sunk to rest within its arms entwined, Like the Phoenician virgin, wake, and find Ourselves alone again. Then, through the distant future's boundless space, We seek the lost companion of our days: "Return, return!" we cry, and lo, apace Pleasure appears! but not to fill the place Of that we mourn always. I, should unhallowed Pleasure woo me now, Will to the wanton sorc'ress say, "Begone! Respect the cypress on my mournful brow, Lost Happiness hath left regret--but _thou_ Leavest remorse, alone." Yet, haply lest I check the mounting fire, O friends, that in your revelry appears! With you I'll breathe the air which ye respire, And, smiling, hide my melancholy lyre When it is wet with tears. Each in his secret heart perchance doth own Some fond regret 'neath passing smiles concealed;-- Sufferers alike together and alone Are we; with many a grief to others known, How many unrevealed! Alas! for natural tears and simple pains, For tender recollections, cherished long, For guileless griefs, which no compunction stains, We blush; as if we wore these earthly chains Only for sport and song!