This is a dark and dreary world To which we're vainly clinging-- We spurn at life, yet dread the fate Each hour is nearer bringing. It is not love--it is not hope, That binds us to our sorrow-- But wild vague fears--a shrinking dread Of an unearthly morrow: Then wreath the bowl, and pour the wine-- A truce to sober thinking-- And pledge the joy that lingers yet-- The deep, deep joy of drinking. Oh! 'tis a dark and fearful curse Hangs o'er this brief existence-- The knowledge of a fixed doom That mocks our poor resistance. In vain the path is strewed with flowers, The truth will ne'er forsake us-- A grisly demon dogs our steps, And must at last o'ertake us: Then wreath the bowl, and pour the wine-- Avaunt all idle thinking-- And pledge the joy that yet remains-- The deep, deep joy of drinking. III. RUINS. Ye grey and mouldering walls!--ye ivied towers! From whence the midnight-loving bird doth pour Her dreary note upon the solemn hour! Ye dim arcades!--ye fancy-haunted bowers! Ruined--but how majestic in decay! I love thee well; and gazing thus on thee In twilight solitude, it seems to me A spirit voice comes stealing up this way-- The voice of vanished years--and many a tale It tells my musing mind of gallant lords And ladies gay--of moonlight-whispered words, And deeds of high renown--of crimes that pale The cheek to dream--and the malignant scowl Of evil eyes beneath the monkish cowl. IV. SONNET. Oh! I could almost weep to think that thou Whom heaven hath moulded in a form as fair As fancy pictures those of upper air, Shouldst thus belie the promise of that brow Where truth seems to repose, pure as its snow. Alas! that treachery should lurk beneath Such smiles!--a hidden serpent in a wreath Of Eden flowers!--what art thou, wouldst thou know? In all thy pride of charms?--A living tomb Of buried hopes--the grave of ruined hearts Which trusted, loved thee,--dreaming not that arts Which taught the soul excess of bliss, would doom The worshipper to--no! not Death, but worse-- And yet thou art too fair a thing to curse. {29} LIONEL GRANBY. CHAP. VI. "The letters are original, though sometimes in bad taste, and generally verbose." _Edinburgh Review_. I had not been a long time at College before I received a large packet from home, enclosing a number of letters from my uncle, Frederick, and Lucy. One of them was folded in an odd fashion--directed in a stiff and inky hand, and surmounted with a mass of red sealing wax, on which was rudely impressed the ragged outline of the Granby arms. This was one of my uncle's pedantic, prolix, advisory, and generous epistles, and I was soon placed in possession of the following neatly written sentences. _Chalgrave_, ----.