A Parallel

A GRAPE seed, in the new red wine afloat,
Put endless pause to blithe Anacreon’s note;
Thus, antic Death, with light and sportive hand,
The pampered life from out its flower-nook fanned.
But tragic Otway, stung by hunger’s thrust,
In breaking fast, was choked upon a crust;
Still antic Death ! — to make the prop of life
Serve the same end as fatal cord or knife !
Edith M. Thomas.