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TO A YOUNG LADY,

WHO STARTED WITH DISGUST AT THE SIGHT OF

A HUMAN SKULL.

Nay, dearest! turn not thus away,

Nor shade those soft and deep-blue eyes; Yon fearful emblem of decay

Should teach my Rosa to be wise.

That ghastly head thou canst not brook

Was once a thing of smiles and tears ; Had once perchance thy beaming look,

Or reckon'd half thy sum of years.

Perchance it glitter'd in the dance,

Or sweetly sad, or lightly gay: Perchance its bright and winning glance

Has rous'd, like thine, the poet's lay.

But now, a void and nauseous cell,

'Twill house the reptile and its brood; And there, where life was wont to dwell,

The worm in vain will search for food.

Nay, frown not at my

idle

song, It is not meant to cause disgust; Yet all thou view'st in pleasure's throng,

Like yonder skull, must turn to dust,

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Thus, Rosa! to thy guileless mind

A moral in yon head is shown; For, musing on its fate, thou'lt find

A sad memento of thine own.

THE MAID OF WATERLOO.

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I stood upon the scene of death,

Where war had roll'd its fiery tide; And silently I held my breath,

Where chiefs had bled, and heroes died ; And mus’d on those who slept around, Heap'd in unconsecrated ground.

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'Twas then, my beautiful Susette!

I first beheld thy beaming face; First gaz'd upon thine eye of jet,

Thine airy step, and nameless grace ; While decking with each flowery wreath The graves of those who slept beneath.

I deem'd not then that aught had

power My soul from gloomier thoughts to wile; I deem'd not, in that silent hour,

It e'en could bend to beauty's smile;
But who could mark that bright black eye,
Nor turn him from his revery?

And yet, when I am far away,

And 'twixt us rolls the angry main ; Thou still with fairy feet wilt stray,

To gather wild flowers from the plain; And still wilt pause--as if thy tread Could rouse the slumbers of the dead.

Yet if the forms which rest around

Could rouse them from their dreamless sleep; If each young heart once more could bound,

To mark the eyes that o'er him weep; They'd deem thou wert an angel given To point the way from earth to heaven.

Farewell, Susette! I will not ask

If e'er for me thy cheek will glow; But be it still thy guileless task

To pray for those who sleep below; And still, with tearful eye, to tell The fate of those who died so well!

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