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Oh 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


When 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 fush'd her spirit :
I know not by what name beside
I shall it call : if 'twas not pride,
It was a joy to that allied

She did inherit.


Iler 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;

1 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
lIath struck a bliss upon the day,
A bliss that would not go away,
A sweet fore-warning?

C. Lamb



If I had thought thou couldst have died,

I might not weep for thee; But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be: It never through my mind had past

The time would e'er be o'er, And I on thee should look my last,

And thou shouldst smile no more !

And still upon that face I look,

And think 'twill smile again ; And still the thought I will not brook

That I must look in vain !
But when I speak—thou dost not say

What thou ne'er left'st unsaid
And now I feel, as well I may,

Sweet Mary! thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,

All cold and all serene--
I still might press thy silent heart,

And where thy smiles have been. While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,

Thou seemest still mine own;
But there I lay thee in thy grave-

And I am now alone!
I do not think, where'er thou art,

Thou hast forgotten me ;
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,

In thinking too of thee :
Yet there was round theę such a dawn

Of light ne'er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore !

C. Wolfe


CORONACH He is gone on the mountain,

He is lost to the forest, Like a summer-dried fountain,

When our need was the sorest. The font 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 searest, 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 for ever!

Sir IV. Scott



We 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.
So silently we seem'd to speak,

So slowly moved about,
As we had lent her half our powers

To eke her living out.
Our very hopes belied our fears,

Our fears our hopes belied-
We thought her dying when she slept,

And sleeping when she died.
For when the morn came dim and sad

And chill with early showers,
Her quiet eyelids closed-she had
Another morn than ours.

7. Hood



I saw her in childhood

A bright, gentle thing,
Like the dawn of the morn,

Or the dews of the spring :
The daisies and hare-bells

Her playmates all day ;
Herself as light-hearted

And artless as they.

I saw her again,

A fair girl of eighteen,
Fresh glittering with graces

Of mind and of mien.
IIer speech was all music;

Like moonlight she shone ;
The envy of many,

The glory of one.
Years, years fleeted over--

I stood at her foot :
The bud had grown blossom,

The blossom was fruit.
A dignified mother,

Her infant she bore ;
And look'd, I thought, fairer

Than ever before.
I saw her once more-

'Twas the day that she died ;
Heaven's light was around her,

And God at her side ;
No wants to distress her,

No fears to appal-
O then, I felt, then
She was fairest of all !

H. F. Lyte



O 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 ladye, deign to stay ! Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,

Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.

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