"Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill, As to my bosom I have tried to press thee! How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet 'My father!' from those dumb And cold lips, Absalom! "But death is on thee; I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young; And life will pass me in the mantling blush, And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;-- But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come To meet me, Absalom! "And oh! when I am stricken, and my heart, Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart, Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee. Absalom! "And now, farewell! 'T is hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee!-- And thy dark skin!--oh! I could drink the cup, If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, My lost boy Absalom!" He covered up his face, and bowed himself A moment on his child; then, giving him A look of melting tenderness, he clasped His hands convulsively as if in prayer; And, as if strength were given him of God, He rose up calmly, and composed the pall Firmly and decently--and left him there, As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. N. P. Willis. CLXVII. "LOOK NOT UPON THE WINE." Look not upon the wine when it Is red within the cup! Stay not for pleasure when she fills Her tempting beaker up! Though clear its depths, and rich its glow, A spell of madness lurks below. They say 't is pleasant on the lip, And merry on the brain; They say it stirs the sluggish blood, And dulls the tooth of pain. Ay--but within its glowing deeps A stinging serpent, unseen, sleeps. Its rosy lights will turn to fire, Its coolness change to thirst; And, by its mirth, within the brain A sleepless worm is nursed. There's not a bubble at the brim That does not carry food for him.