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A springy motion in her gait,
A rising step, did indicate
Of pride and joy no common rate,

That flushed 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.

Her parents held the Quaker rule, Which doth the human feeling cool ; But she was trained in Nature's school

Nature had blessed 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 neighbor, 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?


That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring,
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse;
So may some gentle muse
With lucky words favor


And as he passes turn,
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud;
For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,
Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill.
Together both, ere the high lawns appeared
Under the opening eyelids of the morn,
We drove a-field, and both together heard
What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,
Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of

night, Oft till the star that rose at evening bright Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering

wheel. Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, Tempered to the oaten flute; Rough satyrs danced, and fauns with cloven heel From the glad song would not be absent long, And old Damætas loved to hear our song.

But oh, the heavy change, now thou art gone — Now thou art gone, and never must return! Thee, shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves, With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'er

grown, And all their echoes, mourn; The willows, and the hazel copses green, Shall now no more be seen, Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. As killing as the canker to the rose, Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear, When first the white-thorn blows; Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. Where were ye, nymphs, when the remorseless

deep Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas ? For neither were ye playing on the steep, Where your old bards, the famous druids, lie, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream Ay me! I fondly dream, Had ye been there; for what could that have

done What could the muse herself that Orpheus bore, The muse herself for her enchanting son,


YEt once more, O ye laurels, and once more
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude
And with forced fingers rude
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year,
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,
Compels me to disturb your season due ;
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.
Who would not sing for Lycidas ? he knew
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not float upon his watery bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.

Begin then, sisters of the sacred well,

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Whom universal nature did lainent,

Like to that sanguine flower, inscribed with woe. When, by the rout that made the hideous roar, Ah! who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge ? His gory visage down the stream was sent,

Last came, and last did go, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore The pilot of the Galilean Lake ; Alas! what boots it with incessant care

Two massy keys he bore of metals twain To tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade, (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain); And strictly meditate the thankless muse?

He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake : Were it not better done, as others use,

How well could I have spared for thee, young To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,

swain, Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair?

Enow of such as for their bellies' sake Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold raise

Of other care they little reckoning make, (That last infirmity of noble minds)

Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast, To scorn delights, and live laborious days; And shove away the worthy bidden guest ; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,

Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how And think to burst out into sudden blaze,

to hold Comes the blind fury with the abhorred shears, A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least And slits the thin-spun life. But not the That to the faithful herdsman's art belongs ! praise,

What recks it them what need they? they are Phæbus replied, and touched my trembling ears ; sped; Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, And when they list, their lean and flashy songs Nor in the glistering foil

Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw; Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies; The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes But, swollen with wind and the rank mist they And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;

draw, As he pronounces lastly on each deed,

Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread; Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed. Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw

O fountain Arethuse, and thou honored flood, Daily devours apace, and nothing said ; Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds, But that two-handed engine at the door, That strain I heard was of a higher mood ; Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more. But now my oat proceeds,

Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past, And listens to the herald of the sea

That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian muse, That came in Neptune's plea ;

And call the vales, and bid them hither cast He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds, Their bells, and flowerets of a thousand hues. What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use swaint

Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, And questioned every gust of rugged winds On whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely looks, That blows from off each beaked promontory; Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes, They knew not of his story;

That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers, And sage Hippotades their answer brings,

And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed; Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The air was calm, and on the level brine

The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, Sleek Panope with all her sisters played.

The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, It was that fatal and perfidious bark,

The glowing violet, Built in th’ eclipse, and rigged with curses dark, The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.

With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, And every flower that sad embroidery wears. His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,

Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge, And daffodillies fill their cups with tears,



To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies,
For so to interpose a little ease,

In Remembrance of the Hon. Edward Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.

Ernest Billiers.
Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas
Wash far away where'er thy bones are hurled,
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,

A GRACE though melancholy, manly too,
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide Moulded his being ; pensive, grave, serene,
Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world ; O'er his habitual bearing and his mien
Or whether thou to our moist vows denied, Unceasing pain, by patience tempered, threw
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,

A shade of sweet austerity. But seen Where the great vision of the guarded mount In happier hours and by the friendly few, Looks towards Namancos and Bayona's hold ; That curtain of the spirit was withdrawn, Look homeward angel now, and melt with ruth! And fancy light and playful as a fawn, And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth! And reason imped with inquisition keen, Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no Knowledge long sought with ardor ever new, more!

And wit love-kindled, showed in colors true For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,

What genial joys with sufferings can consist. Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. Then did all sternness melt as melts a mist So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,

Touched by the brightness of the golden dawn, And yet anon repairs his drooping head,

Aërial heights disclosing, valleys green, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore And sunlights thrown the woodland tufts between, Flames in the forehead of the morning sky; And flowers and spangles of the dewy lawn. So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves,

And even the stranger, though he saw not these, Where, other groves and other streams along, Saw what would not be willingly passed by. With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,

In his deportment, even when cold and shy, And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,

Was seen a clear collectedness and ease, In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. A simple grace and gentle dignity, There entertain him all the saints above,

That failed not at the first accost to please; In solemn troops and sweet societies,

And as reserve relented by degrees, That sing, and singing in their glory move, So winning was his aspect and address, And wipe the tears forever from his eyes.

His smile so rich in sad felicities, Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more; Accordant to a voice which charmed no less, Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore, That who but saw him once remembered long, In thy large recompense, and shalt be good And some in whom such images are strong To all that wander in that perilous flood.

Have hoarded the impression in their heart, Thus sang the uncouth swain to th' oaks and Fancy's fond dreams and memory's joys among, rills,

Like some loved relic of romantic song, While the still morn went out with sandals Or cherished masterpiece of ancient art.

He touched the tender stops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay. His life was private; safely led, aloof
And now the sun had stretched out all the hills, From the loud world, — which yet he understood
And now was dropt into the western bay;

Largely and wisely, as no worldling could.
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue: For he by privilege of his nature proof
To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new. Against false glitter, from beneath the roof


of privacy, as from a cave, surveyed
With steadfast eye its flickering light and shade,




He's gane! he's gane! he's frae us torn,
The ae best fellow e'er was born!
Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel' shall mourn

By wood and wild,
Where, haply, pity strays forlorn,

Frae man exiled.

And gently judged for evil and for good.
But whilst he mixed not for his own behoof
In public strife, his spirit glowed with zeal,
Not shorn of action, for the public weal –
For truth and justice as its warp and woof,
For freedom as its signature and seal.
His life thus sacred from the world, discharged
From vain ambition and inordinate care,
In virtue exercised, by reverence rare
Lifted, and by humility enlarged,
Became a temple and a place of prayer.
In latter years he walked not singly there ;
For one was with him, ready at all hours
His griefs, his joys, his inmost thoughts to share,
Who buoyantly his burthens helped to bear,
And decked his altars daily with fresh flowers.

Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns,
That proudly cock your cresting cairns !
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns,

Where echo slumbers !
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns,

My wailing numbers !
Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens !
Ye hazelly shaws and briery dens!
Ye burnies, wimplin down your glens,

Wi’ todlin' din,
Or foaming strang, wi' hasty stens,

Frae linn to linn.


Mourn, little harebells owre the lea;
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see ;
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie,

In scented bowers;
Ye roses on your thorny tree,

The first o' flowers.

But farther may we pass not; for the ground
Is holier than the muse herself may tread ;
Nor would I it should echo to a sound
Less solemn than the service for the dead.
Mine is inferior matter - my own loss —
The loss of dear delights for ever fled,
Of reason's converse by affection fed,
Of wisdom, counsel, solace, that across
Life's dreariest tracts a tender radiance shed.
Friend of my youth! though younger, yet my

How much by thy unerring insight clear
I shaped my way of life for many a year,
What thoughtful friendship on thy death-bed died !
Friend of my youth! whilst thou wast by my side,
Autumnal days still breathed a vernal breath ;
How like a charm thy life to me supplied
All waste and injury of time and tide,
How like a disenchantment was thy death!


At dawn, when every grassy blade
Droops with a diamond at his head,
At even, when beans their fragrance shed

l'th' rustling gale, Ye maukins, whiddin' through the glade,

Come, join my wail !

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood;
Ye grouse that crap the heather-bud;
Ye curlews calling through a clud;

Ye whistling plover;
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood;

He's gane for ever!
Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals ;
Ye fisher herons, watching eels;
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels

Circling the lake;
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels,

Rair for his sake!

Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson.

O DEATH! thou tyrant fell and bloody!
The muckle devil wi' a woodie
Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie,

O'er hurcheon hides,
And like stockfish come o'er his studdie

Wi' thy auld sides !

Mourn, clam'ring craiks, at close o' day, 'Mang fields o' flowering clover gay!

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