In poverty,

And still

mh

hunger,

a voice of dolorous. tone could чешь The Rich!

sary this song

Then, when the gale is sighing,
And when the leaves are dying,
And when the song is o'er,
O, let us think of those
Whose lives are lost in woes,

Whose cup of grief runs o'er.

HENRY NEELE.

HENCE, ALL YE VAIN DELIGHTS.

HENCE, all ye vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly!
There's naught in this life sweet,

If man were wise to see 't,
But only melancholy,

O, sweetest melancholy!
Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,

A look that's fastened to the ground,
A tongue chained up without a sound!
Fountain-heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed save bats and owls!
A midnight bell, a parting groan!

These are the sounds we feed upon.

Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley; Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

BEAUMONT and FLETCHER.

ANONYMOUS.

MOAN, MOAN, YE DYING GALES.

MOAN, moan, ye dying gales!
The saddest of your tales
Is not so sad as life;
Nor have you e'er began
A theme so wild as man,

Or with such sorrow rife.

Fall, fall, thou withered leaf!
Autumn sears not like grief,

Nor kills such lovely flowers;
More terrible the storm,
More mournful the deform,

When dark misfortune lowers.

Hush hush! thou trembling lyre,
Silence, ye vocal choir,

And thou, mellifluous lute,

For man soon breathes his last,
And all his hope is past,

And all his music mute.