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.
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
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?
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 thee such a dawn Of light ne'er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore !
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!
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.
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.
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. Her 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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