Or the black flowing river:

Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery
Swift to be hurl'd
Any where, any where
Out of the world!
In she plunged boldly,
No matter how coldly

The rough river ran,
Over the brink of it,-
Picture it, think of it,

Dissolute Man!
Lave in it, drink of it
Then, if you can!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,

Decently, kindly,

Smooth and compose them ;

And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staring

Thro' muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fix'd on futurity.

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O 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.

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HESTER

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 flush'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.

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 fore-warning?

C. LAMB.

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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

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Takes the ears that are hoary,

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But the voice of the weeper

Wails manhood in glory.

The autumn winds rushing

Waft the leaves that are serest,

Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou art gone, and for ever!

SIR W. SCOTT.

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THE DEATH-BED

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.

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But when the morn came dim and sad 5
And chill with early showers,
Her quiet eyelids closed-she had
Another morn than ours.

T. HOOD.

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ROSABELLE

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! 5 And, gentle ladye, 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 ladye gay; Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch; Why cross the gloomy firth to-day ? ›

'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir
To-night at Roslin leads the ball,

But that my ladye-mother there
Sits lonely in her castle-hall.

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

-O'er Roslin all that dreary night

A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light, And redder than the bright moonbeam.

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