Twas Death that came into the hall,
    With visage wan and grim,
  And throwing off his sickly pall,
    Disclos’d each meagre limb.

  Some rose to flee, but palsied fell,
    “I’m monarch here,” cries Death;
  And falling bodies quickly tell
    His power o’er life and breath.

  Beauty lies cold in his embrace,
    And pale is manhood’s brow;
  The rose that crimson’d youth’s fair cheek,
    Lies a crush’d lily now.

  All, all have sank beneath his dart,
    Save fashion’s ruthless hold;
  She still maintains her iron grasp
    O’er bodies pale and cold.

  Gold glitters on the pallid brow,
    And glassy eye-balls stare
  Through glossy ringlets, clustering bright,
    Of silken, raven hair.

  All, all had bow’d to Fashion’s shrine,
    To deck the living form,
  Through which will drag its length’ned slime,
    The crawling coffin worm.

  The morning sun had risen high,
    And brightly shone o’er all;
  But comes no voice, and wakes no eye
    Within that spacious hall.

  A traveller passing by that morn,
    Marvell’d that all so long
  Should linger in that festive hall
    With revelry and song.

  And so alighting from his steed,
    He cross’d the portal high,
  And glancing o’er the silent hall,
    The sad sight met his eye.

  With lightning’s speed he hurri’d forth
    To tell the dismal tale,
  And soon were gather’d sorrowing friends
    From mountain, hill, and dale.

  Sad was the fun’ral wail that rose
    From that infected hall;
  Nought could the different forms define,
    But Fashion’s slimpsey pall.

  And there they rais’d one common tomb,
    And left them to their sleep,
  ’Till Christ’s loud trump shall wake the dead
    From slumber, long and deep.

  The marble monument they rais’d
    Doth this instruction bear: 
  “The things of earth pass soon away,
    To meet your God prepare.”

  Many voices from the dead,
    Here bid you well beware;
  Tho’ youth may bloom upon your cheek,
    Still, still for death prepare.

  The flowing nectar that had grac’d
    The centre of the whole,
  And so enlivened every guest,
    Had death within the bowl.

  Some small ingredient, when ’twas fix’d,
    Was left by a mistake,
  And others were together mix’d,
    That active poison make.

To the Maiden

  Maiden, have not the joys of earth
  Prov’d fleeting, and of little worth? 
  And when the summer sun rode high,
  Have clouds ne’er flitted o’er the sky? 
  Has Hope ne’er sprung beside thy way,
  And blossom’d only to decay? 
  Has Friendship never chang’d her tone,
  And ’woke a sigh for pleasures gone?