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This heart, alas! perverted long,
Itself destroyed might there destroy; To meet thee in the glittering throng, Would wake Presumption's hope of joy.
Then to the things whose bliss or woe,
Where those who feel must surely fall.
Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness,
From what even here hath past, may guess
Oh! pardon that imploring tear,
For me they shall not weep again.
Though long and mournful must it be,
The thought that we no more may meet;
Yet I deserve the stern decree,
And almost deem the sentence sweet.
Still, had I loved thee less, my heart
Had then less sacrificed to thine;
It felt not half so much to part,
As if its guilt had made thee mine.
Lines inscribed upon a Cup formed from a Skull.
START not-nor deem my spirit fled:
In me behold the only skull,
From which, unlike a living head,
Whatever flows is never dull.
I lived, I loved, I quaffed, like thee;
The worm hath fouler lips than thine.
Better to hold the sparkling grape,
Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood;
And circle in the goblet's shape
The drink of Gods, than reptile's food.
Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone,
In aid of others' let me shine;
And when, alas! our brains are gone,
What nobler substitute than wine!