'Till the fog-wrapped city is hid from view;
'Till the rugged cliffs with the waters meet,
And the mingled voices from every clime
And the hurrying tramp of reckless feet
Are drowned in the breakers' sobbing rhyme.
But farther out than this ocean beach,
Farther than Charity's hands will reach,
Farther than Pity _dares_ to come,
Is she who rushes, with white lips dumb,
To repeat the tale that too oft is told--
Out in the cold.

From the loathesome dens whose scenes appal,
Whose tainted breath's the Simoom's blast;
Away on the dizzying, surf-washed rock,
Pausing a moment upon the brink--
Pausing a moment perchance to think;
Sliding the bolt in Memory's lock,
And back in its dusty, haunted hall,
Living again the vanished past--
Living her happy childhood o'er;
Chasing the butterflies over the flowers,
Petted and loved, a girl again,
Dreaming away the golden hours;
Living again another scene,
Flattered and toasted "beauty's queen;"
Taking again, with a merry laugh,
From gallant hands a sparkling draught.
O, angels, tell her 'tis a draught of woe!
That _ruin_ lies in its amber glow.