SNATCH'D away in beauty's bloom!

On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;

But on thy turf shall roses rear

Their leaves, the earliest of the year,

And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom :

And oft by yon blue gushing stream
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
And feed deep thought with many a dream,
And lingering pause and lightly tread;
Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead!

Away! we know that tears are vain,

That Death nor heeds nor hears distress:
Will this unteach us to complain?

Or make one mourner weep the less?
And thou, who tell'st me to forget,
Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

Lord Byron

W

CCXXXIII

HESTER

HEN maidens such as Hester die

Their place ye may not well supply,

Though ye among a thousand try

With vain endeavour.

A month or more hath she been dead,
Yet cannot I by force be led

To think upon the wormy bed
And her together.

A springy motion in her gait,
A rising step, did indicate

Of pride and joy no common rate
That flush'd her spirit:

I know not by what name beside
I shall it call: if 't was not pride,
It was a joy to that allied

She did inherit.

Her parents held the Quaker rule Which doth the human feeling cool; But she was train'd in Nature's school, Nature had blest her.

A waking eye, a prying mind,

A heart that stirs, is hard to bind ;
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,
Ye could not Hester.

My sprightly neighbour! gone before
To that unknown and silent shore,
Shall we not meet, as heretofore

Some summer morning —
When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
A bliss that would not go away,
A sweet forewarning?

C. Lamb

CCXXXIV

CORONACH

E is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,

Like a summer-dried fountain,

When our need was the sorest.

The fount reappearing

From the raindrops shall borrow

But to us comes no cheering,

To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper

Takes the ears that are hoary,

But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory.
The autumn winds rushing

Waft the leaves that are serest,
But our flower was in flushing
When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the correi,

Sage counsel in cumber,

Red hand in the foray,

How sound is thy slumber! Like the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone, and forever!

Sir W. Scott

WE

CCXXXV

THE DEATH BED

E watch'd her breathing thro' the night,
Her breathing soft and low,

As in her breast the wave of life

Kept heaving to and fro.

But when the morn came dim and sad
And chill with early showers,
Her quiet eyelids closed — she had

Another morn than ours.

T. Hood

O

CCXXXVI

ROSABELLE

LISTEN, listen, ladies gay!
No haughty feat of arms I tell
Soft is the note, and sad the lay
That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.

'Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew,
And, gentle lady, deign to stay!
Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,
Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.

'The blackening wave is edged with white;
To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;
The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite,
Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.

'Last night the gifted Seer did view

A wet shroud swathed round lady gay; Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch; Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?

"'T is not because Lord Lindesay's heir
To-night at Roslin leads the ball,
But that my lady-mother there
Sits lonely in her castle-hall.

"'T is not because the ring they ride,
And Lindesay at the ring rides well,
But that my sire the wine will chide
If 't is not fill'd by Rosabelle.'