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Even could the hand of avarice save

Its gilded baubles, till the grave
Reclaimed its prey,

Let none on such poor hopes rely;
Life, like an empty dream, flits by,
And where are they?

Earthly desires and sensual lust

Are passions springing from the dust, —

They fade and die ;

But, in the life beyond the tomb,

They seal the immortal spirit's doom
Eternally!

The pleasures and delights, which mask In treacherous smiles life's serious task, What are they, all,

But the fleet coursers of the chase,

And death an ambush in the race,
In which we fall?

No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed,

Brook no delay, but onward speed,

With loosened rein;

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And, when the fatal snare is near, We strive to check our mad career,

But strive in vain.

Could we new charms to age impart, And fashion with a cunning art

The human face,

As we can clothe the soul with light, And make the glorious spirit bright With heavenly grace,—

How busily each passing hour Should we exert that magic power!

What ardor show,

To deck the sensual slave of sin,

Yet leave the freeborn soul within,
In weeds of woe!

Monarchs, the powerful and the strong,

Famous in history and in song

Of olden time,

Saw, by the stern decrees of fate,
Their kingdoms lost, and desolate
Their race sublime.

Who is the champion? who the strong? Pontiff and priest, and sceptred throng?

On these shall fall.

As heavily the hand of Death,

As when it stays the shepherd's breath Beside his stall.

I speak not of the Trojan name,
Neither its glory nor its shame

Has met our eyes;

Nor of Rome's great and glorious dead, Though we have heard so oft, and read, Their histories.

Little avails it now to know

Of ages passed so long ago,
Nor how they rolled;

Our theme shall be of yesterday,

Which to oblivion sweeps away,

Like days of old.

Where is the King, Don Juan? Where
Each royal prince and noble heir
Of Aragon?

Where are the courtly gallantries ?
The deeds of love and high emprise,
In battle done?

Tourney and joust, that charmed the eye, And scarf, and gorgeous panoply,

And nodding plume,

What were they but a pageant scene?
What but the garlands, gay and green,
That deck the tomb?

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Where are the high-born dames, and where Their gay attire, and jewelled hair,

And odors sweet?

Where are the gentle knights, that came To kneel, and breathe love's ardent flame, Low at their feet?

Where is the song of Troubadour ?

Where are the lute and gay tambour

They loved of yore?

Where is the mazy dance of old,

The flowing robes, inwrought with gold,
The dancers wore ?

And he who next the sceptre swayed,
Henry, whose royal court displayed
Such power and pride;

O, in what winning smiles arrayed,
The world its various pleasures laid
His throne beside !

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