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There is enough of sadness to invite,
If only for the rose that died, whose doom
Is Beauty's, — she that with the living bloom
Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light;
There is enough of sorrowing, and quite
Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear,
Enough of chilly droppings for her bowl;
Enough of fear and shadowy despair,
To frame her cloudy prison for the soul.!

BALLAD.

SPRING it is cheery,

Winter is dreary,
Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly;

When he's forsaken,
Wither'd and shaken,

What can an old man do but die ?

Love will not clip him,

Maids will not lip him, Maud and Marian pass him by ;

Youth it is

sunny, Age has no honey, What can an old man do but die ?

June it was jolly,

O for its folly!
A dancing leg and a laughing eye ;

Youth may be silly,
Wisdom is chilly,

What can an old man do but die?

Friends, they are scanty,

Beggars are plenty,
If he has followers, I know why ;

Gold's in his clutches,

(Buying him' crutches !) What can an old man do but die ?

HYMN TO THE SUN.

Giver of glowing light ! Though but a god of other days,

The kings and sages

Of wiser ages
Still live and gladden in thy genial rays !

King of the tuneful lyre,
Still poets' hymns to thee belong;

Though lips are cold
Whereon of old

Thy beams all turn'd to worshipping and song!

Lord of the dreadful bow,
None triumph now for Python's death ;

But thou dost save

From hungry grave
The life that hangs upon a summer breath.

Father of rosy day,
No more thy clouds of incense rise;

But waking flow'rs

At morning hours, Give out their sweets to meet thee in the skies.

God of the Delphic fane,
No more thou listenest to hymns sublime;

But they will leave

On winds at eve,

A solemn echo to the end of time.

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