THE FEAST OF LIFE.
I bid thee to my mystic Feast,
Each one thou lovest is gathered there;
Yet put thou on a mourning robe,
And bind the cypress in thy hair.
The hall is vast, and cold, and drear;
The board with faded flowers is spread:
Shadows of beauty flit around,
But beauty from each bloom has fled;
And music echoes from the walls,
But music with a dirge-like sound;
And pale and silent are the guests,
And every eye is on the ground.
Here, take this cup, tho' dark it seem,
And drink to human hopes and fears;
'Tis from their native element
The cup is filled--it is of tears.
What! turnest thou with averted brow?
Thou scornest this poor feast of mine;
And askest for a purple robe,
Light words, glad smiles, and sunny wine.
In vain, the veil has left thine eyes,
Or such these would have seemed to thee;
Before thee is the Feast of Life,
But life in its reality!
We should not, however, pass over in silence a poem, of the antique
school, entitled the Holy Vengeance for the Martyrdom of George
Wishart, the merits of which are of a high order. Indeed, this piece,
and the admirable composition of the History of Sir Thomas More and
his Family, with the Holbein print, distinguish the Bijou from all
other publications of its class, and are characteristic of the good
taste of Mr.
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