 | Poems |  |
157
AT A BALL.
Let us go to some place of rest, my soul!
Why do we linger here?
Where the night-winds pant, and the dull waves roll,
And the sound and sight are drear;
It will suit the worn spirit best, my soul!
Then why should we linger here?
What avail the gay notes and light foot of young pleasure,
When the heart's not in tune to keep time with the measure.
Why do we linger here?
Where the night-winds pant, and the dull waves roll,
And the sound and sight are drear;
It will suit the worn spirit best, my soul!
Then why should we linger here?
What avail the gay notes and light foot of young pleasure,
When the heart's not in tune to keep time with the measure.
Not for us is the festive hall, my soul!
Its groups like spectres grin;
And music and dance as the death-bells toll
In the ear of the child of sin;
Ev'n thus on my heart they fall, my soul!
And jar on the strings within.
When the heart's out of tune, oh how harsh seems the measure,
To which giddy groups whirl in the circle of pleasure!
Its groups like spectres grin;
And music and dance as the death-bells toll
In the ear of the child of sin;
Ev'n thus on my heart they fall, my soul!
And jar on the strings within.
When the heart's out of tune, oh how harsh seems the measure,
To which giddy groups whirl in the circle of pleasure!
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