Fragment: 'When a Lover Clasps His Fairest'

When a lover clasps his fairest,

Then be our dread sport the rarest.

Their caresses were like the chaff

In the tempest, and be our laugh

His despair--her epitaph!

When a mother clasps her child,

Watch till dusty Death has piled

His cold ashes on the clay;

She has loved it many a day--

She remains,--it fades away.