Qu'importe?
Quaff off meanwhile life's sparkling wine!
Of what avail are mournful fears,
Foreboding sighs and idle tears,
They hinder not the hurrying years;
Buvons!

"This fleeting hour will soon be past";
Qu'importe?
Enrich its moments while they last!
To-day is ours; be ours its joy!
Let not to-morrow's cares annoy!
Enough the present to employ;
Vivons!

"These pleasures will not come again";
Qu'importe?
Enjoy their keenest transport then!
If but of these we are secure,
Be of their sweetness doubly sure,
That long their memory may endure!
Rions!

"With time love's ardor always cools";
Qu'importe?
Leave that lugubrious chant to fools!
Must doubt destroy our present bliss?
Shall we through fear love's rapture miss,
Or lose the honey of its kiss?
Aimons!

"The sun will set at day's decline";
Qu'importe?
Will not the eternal stars still shine?
So even in life's darkest night
A thousand quenchless suns are bright,--
Blest souvenirs of past delight;
Allons!

TO THE COUNTESS GUICCIOLI, AFTER READING HER "RECOLLECTIONS OF LORD BYRON"

Like one who, homeward bound from distant lands,
Describes strange climes and visions passing fair,
Yet deftly hides from others' eyes and hands
A private casket filled with treasures rare,
So, favored Countess, all that thou dost say
Is nothing to thy secrets left unsaid;
Thy printed souvenirs are but the spray
Above the depths of ocean's briny bed.
For, oh! how often must thy mind retrace
Soft phrases whispered in the Tuscan tongue,
Love's changes sweeping o'er his mobile face,
And kisses sweeter far than he had sung;
The gleam of passion in his glorious eyes,
The hours of inspiration when he wrote,
Recalled to Earth in sudden, sweet surprise
At feeling thy white arms about his throat;
To have been loved by Byron! Not in youth
When ardent senses tempt to reckless choice,
But in maturer years, when keen-eyed Truth
Reveals the folly of the siren's voice.
Last love is best, and this thou didst enjoy;
Thy happy fate to see no rival claim
A share in what was thine without alloy;
How must the remnant of thy life seem tame!
Yet this thy recompense,--that thou dost keep
Thy friend and lover safe from every change;
For, loyal to thy love, he fell asleep,
And life it is, not death, that can estrange.

THE DEATH OF ANTONINUS PIUS

Through the marble gates of Ostia,
Where the Tiber meets the sea,
And a hundred