Kiss me?—canst no longer do it? My friend, so short a time thou’rt missing, And hast unlearned thy kissing? Why is my heart so anxious on thy breast? Where once a heaven thy glances did create me, A heaven thy loving words expressed, And thou didst kiss, as thou would suffocate me— Kiss me! Or I’ll kiss thee. (_She embraces him._) Ah, woe! thy lips are chill And still. How changed in fashion Thy passion! Who has done me this ill? Nor can they forget the simple song in which, while seated at her spinning-wheel, she gives utterance to her grief. The closing verses are these: And the magic flow Of his talk, the bliss In the clasp of his hand, And, ah, his kiss! My peace is gone, My heart is sore; I never shall find it, Ah, nevermore! My bosom yearns For him alone; Ah! dared I clasp him, And hold, and own, And kiss his mouth To heart’s desire, And on his kisses At last expire! THE WELCOME HOME. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care; No children run to lisp their sire’s return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. GRAY: _Elegy_. Evidently the poet Gray had in his mind’s eye the following passage from Lucretius: “Non domus accipiet te læta, neque uxor Optima, nec dulces occurrent oscula nati Præripere, et tacita pectus dulcedine tangent.” [No joyous home shall receive thee, nor excellent wife, nor will any dear children of thine run out to meet thee and vie with each other in snatching kisses from thee, and raise a tumult of sweet but unutterable affection in thy breast.] AFTER THE BALL. [The sisters return from the ball to their chamber, gayly laugh and chat over the reminiscences of the night, lay aside “the robe of satin and Brussels lace,” “comb out their braids and curls,” and as the fire goes out, and the winter chill is gathering, they seek repose. “Curtained away from the chilly night, after the revel is done,” they “float along in a splendid dream,” which the poet recounts, and then addresses them thus:] Oh, Maud and Madge, dream on together, With never a pang of jealous fear! For, ere the bitter St. Agnes weather Shall whiten another year, Robed for the bridal, and robed for the tomb, Braided brown hair, and golden tress, There’ll be only one of you left for the bloom Of the bearded lips to press,— Only one for the bridal pearls, The robe of satin and Brussels lace,— Only one to blush through her curls At the sight of a lover’s face. Oh, beautiful Madge, in your bridal white, For you the revel has just begun; But for her who sleeps in your arms to-night, The revel of life is done!