AND WILT THOU WEEP WHEN I AM LOW?

ND wilt thou weep when I am low?

Sweet lady! speak those words again : Yet if they grieve thee, say not so

I would not give that bosom pain.

My heart is sad, my hopes are gone,

My blood runs coldly through my breast;

And when I perish, thou alone

Wilt sigh above my place of rest.

And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace

Doth through my cloud of anguish shine:

And for a while my sorrows cease,

To know thy heart hath felt for mine.

Oh lady! blessed be that tear

It falls for one who cannot weep; Such precious drops are doubly dear

To those whose eyes no tear may steep.

Sweet lady! once my heart was warm
With every feeling soft as thine;
But beauty's self hath ceased to charm
A wretch created to repine.

Yet wilt thou weep when I am low?
Sweet lady! speak those words again :

Yet if they grieve thee, say not so-
I would not give that bosom pain.

ILL the goblet again! for I never before Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core;

Let us drink!-who would not?-since,

through life's varied round,

In the goblet alone no deception is found.

I have tried in its turn all that life can supply,

I have bask'd in the beam of a dark rolling eye;

I have loved!-who has not?-but what heart can

declare

That pleasure existed while passion was there?

In the days of my youth, when the heart's in its

spring,

And dreams that affection can never take wing,

I had friends!-who has not?—but what tongue will

avow,

That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou?

The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange, Friendship shifts with the sunbeam—thou never canst

change;

Thou grow'st old-who does not?--but on earth what

appears,

Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years?

Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow,
Should a rival bow down to our idol below,

We are jealous!-who's not ?-thou hast no such

alloy;

For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy.

Then the season of youth and its vanities past,

For refuge we fly to the goblet at last;

There we find do we not ?—in the flow of the soul,

That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl.

When the box of Pandora was opened on earth,

And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth,

Hope was left, was she not?-but the goblet we kiss,

And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss.

Long life to the grape! for when summer is flown,
The age of our nectar shall gladden our own:

We must die-who shall not ?-May our sins be for