THE MIRROR.

Slow-moving moonlight once did pass

Across the dreaming looking-glass,

Where, sunk inviolably deep,

Old secrets unforgotten sleep

Of beauties unforgettable.

But dusty cobwebs are woven now

Across that mirror, which of old

Saw fingers drawing back the gold

From an untroubled brow;

And the depths are blinded to the moon,

And their secrets forgotten, for ever untold.