The pain Remembrance gives, when the fix'd dart Is stirred thus in the wound again.

You may break, you may shatter the vase, as you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

Wouldst thou, or thou, Forego what's now, For all that hope may say? No--joy's reply, From every eye, Is, "Live we while we may."

Whose wit in the combat as gentle as bright Ne'er carried a heartstain away on its blade.

While tears that from repentance flow, In bright exhalement reach the skies.

To-night, at least, to-night be gay, Whate'er to-morrow brings.