That heart with inspiration sweet

And enmity and hope and love -

The blood boiled and the passions strove.

Now, as in a deserted house,

All dark and silent hath become;

The inmate is for ever dumb,

The windows whitened, shutters close -

Whither departed is the host?

God knows! The very trace is lost.

XXXI.

'Tis sweet the foe to aggravate

With epigrams impertinent,

Sweet to behold him obstinate,

His butting horns in anger bent,

The glass unwittingly inspect

And blush to own himself reflect.

Sweeter it is, my friends, if he

Howl like a dolt: 'tis meant for me!

But sweeter still it is to arrange

For him an honourable grave,

At his pale brow a shot to have,

Placed at the customary range;

But home his body to despatch

Can scarce in sweetness be a match.

XXXII.

Well, if your pistol ball by chance

The comrade of your youth should strike,

Who by a haughty word or glance

Or any trifle else ye like

You o'er your wine insulted hath -

Or even overcome by wrath

Scornfully challenged you afield -

Tell me, of sentiments concealed

Which in your spirit dominates,

When motionless your gaze beneath