Death's black wine.
Hurrah!--Hurrah!
Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!

[Decoration]

_SIT DOWN, SAD SOUL._

Sit down, sad soul, and count
The moments flying:
Come,--tell the sweet amount
That 's lost by sighing!
How many smiles?--a score?
Then laugh, and count no more;
For day is dying!

Lie down, sad soul, and sleep,
And no more measure
The flight of Time, nor weep
The loss of leisure;
But here, by this lone stream,
Lie down with us, and dream
Of starry treasure!

We dream: do thou the same:
We love--for ever:
We laugh; yet few we shame,
The gentle, never.
Stay, then, till Sorrow dies;
_Then_--hope and happy skies
Are thine for ever!

[Decoration]

_A DRINKING SONG._

Drink, and fill the night with mirth!
Let us have a mighty measure,
Till we quite forget the earth,
And soar into the world of pleasure.
Drink, and let a health go round,
('T is the drinker's noble duty,)
To the eyes that shine and wound,
To the mouths that bud in beauty!

Here 's to Helen! Why, ah! why
Doth she fly from my pursuing?
Here 's to Marian, cold and shy!
May she warm before thy wooing!
Here 's to Janet! I 've been e'er,
Boy and man, her staunch defender,
Always sworn that she was fair,
Always _known_ that she was tender!

Fill the deep-mouthed glasses high!
Let them with the champagne tremble,
Like the loose wrack in the sky,
When the four wild winds assemble!
Here 's to all the love on earth,
(Love, the young man's, wise man's treasure!)
Drink, and fill your throats with mirth!
Drink, and drown the world in pleasure!

[Decoration]

_PEACE! WHAT DO TEARS AVAIL?_

Peace! what can tears avail?
She lies all dumb and pale,
And from her eye,
The spirit of lovely life is fading,
And she must die!
Why looks the lover wroth? the friend upbraiding?
Reply, reply!

Hath she not dwelt too long
'Midst pain, and grief, and wrong?
Then, why not die?
Why suffer again her doom of sorrow,
And hopeless lie?
Why nurse the trembling dream until to-morrow?
Reply, reply!

Death! Take her to thine arms,
In all her stainless charms,
And with her fly
To heavenly haunts, where, clad in brightness,
The Angels lie!
Wilt bear her there, O Death! in all her whiteness?
Reply,--re