O! who that viewed so bright a scene Could guess that sorrow here had been; That any through the dance who glide, In splendour decked, elate with pride, Had seen hopes changed for gloomy fears, Had known the sad relief of tears— As bending o’er the cherished dead They deemed that joy for aye had fled; While now, forgetful, at the call Of Mirth, they fill her echoing hall? Yet, in these proud and gilded rooms, Where music, blent with rich perfumes From fair exotic garlands wreathed, Upon the entranced sense hath breathed; Where mirrors loveliest shapes display, As through the mazy dance they stray; Even here cold Death has held his state— Here drooping mourners wept the fate Of some, whom not even Love could save From the stern beckoner to the grave; Here, where the flowery trophies rise, Came breaking hearts, and streaming eyes; Here, where the airiest feet resound, A sable pall hath swept the ground; Down yonder staircase, broad and deep, A funeral train was seen to sweep: O! strange, how revelry and death— The smile above, the worm beneath,— Divide this earth, till scarce we know Which is the master, Mirth or Wo. O! where’s the dwelling, rich and vast, Wherein no scenes like these have passed; Where yet no tear was ever shed— Came in no fear—went out no dead? A few bright days—a few brief years, And each house is baptised in tears; A few sad hours of sorrow o’er, And Folly shakes her bells once more! Now skilled in every art to please, Deloraine his partner set at ease; He talked of scenery, and flowers, And books that bring us pleasant hours, Till by his converse, wise and mild, Was won the dear confiding child. But deem not her simplicity Had aught of crude rusticity, For dignity and native sense Were mingled with her innocence: And soon his mind, with projects rife, Of his young partner makes a wife; So young, so artless, and so fair, Blessed by his stars, he’ll win and wear; And she ... but who can paint that heart Where vanity had ne’er a part; Where ne’er malicious thought had birth,— A shrine that makes a heaven of earth? He to her mother leads the fair, Then hovers anxious near her chair, Marking with new-born jealousy A herd of beaux, who flock to see One of whose beauty tongues are loud; While she, unconscious why the crowd Press round, beholds but Deloraine, And hopes that near her he’ll remain.