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Nay, these wild fits of uncurb'd laughter Athwart the gloomy tenor of your mind, As it has lower'd of late, so keenly cast, Unsuited seem, and strange. Oh! nothing strange! Didst thou ne'er see the swallow's veering breast, Winging the air beneath some murky cloud, In the sunn'd glimpses of a troubled day, Shiver in silvery brightness? Or boatman's oar, as vivid lightning flash In the faint gleam, that like a spirit's path, Tracks the still waters of some sullen lake? O, gentle friend! Chide not her mirth, who yesterday was sad, And may be so to-morrow! .

met at the stately feasts of old, Where the bright wine foam'd over sculptured gold, Sadness and Mirth!—ye were mingled there With the sound of the lyre in the scented air;