O, my Heart!

YE have heard of the Dweller in Rudesheim Cellar!

The Gnome of the Quartz (bottle) Mine!

An imp from the Mountains! — in fine,
A spirit! — the fiery Spirit of Wine!

Whom hoops of iron round glass environ,
Imprisoning and pressing him tight;
For he burns to burst forth in his might,

And drink his fill of the upper light!

Ah! — how he resembles the rebel that trembles
To break through this dungeoning breast,
Strange straggler! Art master, or guest?

Wilt rest thyself, or let me have rest?

Thou too art prisoned, nor better seasoned
To brook Life's iron-hoop rule-
Grow, grow so, refractory fool!

Slack thy fire! Still thy throbs! Thou art yet but
at school!

Are forty Winters such faint imprinters

Of age on a thing of thy mould?

O shame that them waxest not old!
Why, saucy one, worlds are Time-controlled!

But the worm is Man's brother — and one way or

t'other

Thy sport will be finally spoiled: —
Though the lock on Life's Gate may be oiled,

Death strikes but the surer where Time is foiled.