47 



Content in solitude its cares to feel, 

 Know naught but love, yet all their love conceal. 

 E en, to themselves, in timorous wonder, coy 

 They feel, but own not th jnstinctive joy. 

 Though giving all, they claim no fond return, 

 But pine in silence, and unheeded burn. 

 Drinking from rended wounds with which it 



bleeds ; 



Still, on itself, the heart insatiate feeds, 

 Till the poor spirit sinks at length to rest 

 Its life but love, its love by love unblest. 



Now lies in darkness muffled, all the town, 

 Save where some gas-lamp penetrates the gloom, 

 Or glancing lights from dwelling, or from inn, 

 Reveal hilarity and life within ; 

 Or mammoth lantern, with its painted glare, 

 Invites the rover to potation there ; 

 Or lighted coach along the pavement flies, 

 Like some big bug, with phosphorescent eyes ; 

 Or down an area, opened bull s-eye s rays 

 Of drowsy watchman, sends a sudden blaze ; 

 Now Vice creeps out, and crawls her slimy rounds, 

 And brawling Mirth his noisy tocsin sounds. 



