The song is heard--the chorus blends Its louder tones;--’neath pines up-piled And fruits, the wearied table bends; And sweets--O silly, spendthrift child! The senses are all feasted:--Maids Pour forth the grape-juice--see, it spreads-- The world contributes: ancient Rhine, Champagne, and Xeres, mingling come; And British streams, and streams from home, And Selzerswave and Moselle wine. In a cool grot, whose fountains flow Round alabaster piles and busts, Stretch’d on a bed where roses grow, The slave of thy unholy lusts, Thou liest: a maiden, bright and fair, And young, reposes near thee there-- A nymph with laughter in her eye:-- She sings--thou sinkest on her breast, And, strangely wilder’d, thou hast prest Her hand, in ecstasy of joy. Thou sleepest--and thy dreams foretel An everlasting heaven of bliss: Its flowery buds around thee swell With blossoms bright and blest as this. Thou hast thy treasures, hast thy fields; For thee Siberia’s bosom yields Of countless wealth a rich display: Thee, a proud stream of silver meets:-- O blessed! whom the morrow greets As happy as the yesterday. O blessed! in life’s vale below, Who sees unmoved this shifting scene-- Who, though the mighty storm-winds blow, But hears their rage, and is serene. The thunder-clouds may o’er him roar, The waves may spring the mountains o’er, Scattering the sand and foam--’tis nought To him--the torn and scatter’d wood May leave a desert solitude-- He sits in calm and quiet thought. Ours are but foolish wishes--change, Change is the meteor we pursue: When nought is wanting, then we range And gasp, and grasp at something new. The time of sorrow comes--thy maid Betrays thee as she has betray’d Other admirers--then the song-- Ay! all this noisy song will cease, And thou be left to think in peace-- In sadness----Sorrow’s day is long. Look! even now her eyes are darting Less beams of love, of revelry. Hark! from yon gathering clouds is starting A fearful storm--thy ship’s at sea.-- No! no!--while all seems fair and bright, O dream not thou of sorrow’s night! Feast, neighbour, feast--and dance and sing-- Life’s sun has but a summer’s glow, And joy is innocent--but know, ’Tis but that joy which bears no sting. THE SHIPWRECK. The silver moon the clouds looks through, Her beams upon the waters float; And midst the gathering mist and dew The mariner has launch’d his boat. And in that moonlight’s placid ray His course across the deep he takes; The welcoming port before him lay, And in his bosom joy awakes. But oh! he dashes on a rock-- His voice is choked--his eye is dim; A moment struggling ’gainst the shock, And then--the waves o’er-mantle him.