Around the drunkard's tattered couch

Around the drunkard's tattered couch, Let pale-faced want and misery crouch, His children shivering o'er the hearth, Cheered by no sound of social mirth, Upbraiding, with their timid glances, The author of their sad mischances; And she to whom the holy vow Of the altar bound him, now With sunken eye, and beauty faded, Tresses silvered, brow o'ershaded, Clinging to him fondly still, With a love that mocks each ill, Which would vainly strive to tear Her soul from one who once was dear. Now haste we, each our task to do, Ere the starry hours wane through!

[They fly off, singing as they disappear.

Ere the Morning's rosy wing, Has brushed the damp night-shades away, Ere the birds their matins sing, Choiring to the new-born day, Though its bright birth-hour be near, Many a sigh, and many a tear, Shall attest the mystic might, Of those who walk the world by night.

Werner (solus).

The ruin of the living! if that be Your only task, you have a poor employ. Give man his three score years, and he will make A wreck, the skill of hell might show forth as A sample of its handiwork, and then, Exult at the completeness of its ruin. The troubling of the dead!—if memory lives In that far world, to which the spirit hastens, When she casts off the clay that clogs her wings, E'en there ye are forestalled, for man will need No curse, to make his second life a hell, If be retains the memory of his first. Had the clear waters of this gurgling brook, The pow'r to wash time's blots from th' mind's page, And all earth's mountains were compact of gold, Her rivers nectar, and her oceans wine, Her hills all fruitful, and her valleys fresh, And full of loveliness as Eden was, Ere sin's sad blight fell on its living bow'rs, And all were mine, I'd give them but to lay My weary limbs along this streamlet's bed, And sleep in full forgetfulness awhile. But, I forget my task—now let me to it!