HIPPODROMANIA ? 



Already green hillocks are swelling, 



And combing white locks on the bar, 

 Where a dull, droning murmur is telling 



Of winds that have gather'd afar ; 

 Thus we know not the day, nor the morrow, 



Nor yet what the night may bring forth. 

 Nor the storm, nor the sleep, nor the sorrow. 



Nor the strife, nor the rest, nor the wrath. 



Yet the skies are still tranquil and starlit. 



The sun 'twixt the wave and the west 

 Dies in purple, and crimson, and scarlet. 



And gold ; let us hope for the best. 

 Since again from the earth his effulgence 



The darkness and damp-dews shall wipe, 

 Kind reader, extend your indulgence 



To this the last lay of '' The Pipe." 



