Stay thee on thy mad career,
Other sounds than Mirth's are near;
Fling not those white arms in air;
Cast those roses from thy hair;
Stop awhile those glancing feet;
Still thy golden cymbals' beat;
Ring not thus thy joyous laugh;
Cease that purple cup to quaff;
Hear my voice of warning, hear,—
Stay thee on thy mad career!

Youth's sweet bloom is round thee now,
Roses laugh upon thy brow;
Radiant are thy starry eyes;
Spring is in the crimson dyes

O'er which thy dimple-smile is wreathing;
Incense on thy lip is breathing;
Light and Love are round thy soul,—
But thunder peals o'er June-skies roll;
Even now the storm is near—
Then stay thee on thy mad career!

Raise thine eyes to yonder sky,
There is writ thy destiny;
Clouds have veiled the new moonlight;
Stars have fallen from their height;
These are emblems of the fate
That waits thee—dark and desolate!
All Morn's lights are now thine own,
Soon their glories will be gone;
What remains when they depart?
Faded hope, and withered heart
Like a flower with no perfume
To keep a memory of its bloom!
Look upon that hour-marked round,
Listen to that fateful sound;
There my silent hand is stealing.
My more silent course revealing;
Wild, devoted Pleasure, hear,—
Stay thee on thy mad career!——L. E. L.