But oh! while yet the singing Hebes pour Forgetfulness of those without the door-- At very hour when all are most in joy, And the hid orchestra annuls annoy, Woe--woe! with jollity a-top the heights, With further tapers adding to the lights, And gleaming 'tween the curtains on the street, Where poor folks stare--hark to the heavy feet! Some one smites roundly on the gilded grate, Some one below will be admitted straight, Some one, though not invited, who'll not wait! Close not the door! Your orders are vain breath-- That stranger enters to be known as Death-- Or merely Exile--clothed in alien guise-- Death drags away--with _his_ prey Exile flies! Death is that sight. He promenades the hall, And casts a gloomy shadow on them all, 'Neath which they bend like willows soft, Ere seizing one--the dumbest monarch oft, And bears him to eternal heat and drouth, While still the toothsome morsel's in his mouth. G.W.M. REYNOLDS. THE MORROW OF GRANDEUR. _("Non, l'avenir n'est à personne!")_ [V. ii., August, 1832.] Sire, beware, the future's range Is of God alone the power, Naught below but augurs change, E'en with ev'ry passing hour. Future! mighty mystery! All the earthly goods that be, Fortune, glory, war's renown, King or kaiser's sparkling crown, Victory! with her burning wings, Proud ambition's covetings,-- These may our grasp no more detain Than the free bird who doth alight Upon our roof, and takes its flight High into air again. Nor smile, nor tear, nor haughtiest lord's command, Avails t' unclasp the cold and closèd hand. Thy voice to disenthrall, Dumb phantom, shadow ever at our side! Veiled spectre, journeying with us stride for stride, Whom men "To-morrow" call. Oh, to-morrow! who may dare Its realities to scan? God to-morrow brings to bear What to-day is sown by man. 'Tis the lightning in its shroud, 'Tis the star-concealing cloud, Traitor, 'tis his purpose showing, Engine, lofty tow'rs o'erthrowing, Wand'ring star, its region changing, "Lady of kingdoms," ever ranging. To-morrow! 'Tis the rude display Of the throne's framework, blank and cold, That, rich with velvet, bright with gold, Dazzles the eye to-day. To-morrow! 'tis the foaming war-horse falling; To-morrow! thy victorious march appalling, 'Tis the red fires from Moscow's tow'rs that wave; 'Tis thine Old Guard strewing the Belgian plain; 'Tis the lone island in th' Atlantic main: To-morrow! 'tis the grave!