Kitty's eyes are drowned in sorrow,
From her cheek the rose has fled,
For that mother on the morrow,

In the valley found a bed!

Round her green couch friends are weeping,
Oh, 'twas sad to see them part!
Through the hand that I am keeping
I can feel her beating heart!

Like the night that leaves the mountain,
When the gloom is turned to gold,
Once again beside the fountain,

Bonnie Kitty I enfold.

There I spoke my love's beguiling,
But she answered not my strain,

But upon my breast wept, smiling,
Like the roses after rain!

PART II.

THE

SPIRITS.

A POEM IN THREE DECANTERS.

DECANTER I.

THERE was an ancient grave philosopher,
Whose beard was like the hanging moss over
A wave-beat precipice on Ocean's shore,
Or some old spectral sycamore.

His brow stamped by the feet of crows,

Like tracks of quails o'er winter's snows,

Showed well how four score years could wrinkle

Its marble like a peri-winkle.

His eyes intense, were black and bright,

Like locomotives seen by night;

His hair was silver, sowed with sable,

He had his arm-chair and his table
By which he sat, and pondered o'er
Sublimest metaphysic lore.

In all profoundest matters posted,
Yet of his learning never boasted;
A wight to whom the Talmud's mysteries
Were plain as Peter Parley's histories.

His thoughts crept through the dark, like mice,
And ante-dated Paradise;

He knew of Lilith, that fair madam
Who acted first as bride of Adam,
And bore to first of all progenitors,
Of all mankind from serfs to senators,
A brood of imps and devils-men-eaters!
This sage knew all that Hebrew Moses
In all the pentateuch discloses,
Of acting priests, and ex officio;
In short, the scriptures, ab initio,
From Aaron's rod to David's garters,
From blood of bulls to blood of martyrs,
The number of old Noah's wines,

And Solomon's fair concubines.

In brief, the matter low and high,
From Genesis to Malachi ;

Could give a plain, succinct narration
From Matthew down to Revelation.

Nor stopped he here-for he was master

Of old Chaldean Zoroaster;

The Magi, they whose names have missed us,
And all lost, but for Trismegistus.

So cunning they that every man
With pin could hook Leviathan.