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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;
In thinking still of thee:
Of light ne'er seen before,
CHARLES WOLFE (1791-1823).
WHEN maidens such as Hester die,
With vain endeavour.
A month or more hath she been dead,
And her together.
A springy motion in her gait,
That flushed her spirit.
I know not by what name beside
She did inherit.
Her parents held the Quaker rule,
Nature had blest her.
A waking eye, a prying mind,
Ye could not Hester.
My sprightly neighbour, gone before
Some summer morning,
When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
CHARLES LAMB (1775-1834).
THE SHEPHERD'S ELEGY.
GLIDE soft, ye silver floods,
And every spring.
Let no bird sing!
Be seen to couple with her love.
But of great Thetis' train
That on the shores do plain
Your sea-green hair,
Weep ye; and so enforce the rocks
Cease, cease, ye murmuring winds,
To move a wave;
You seek his grave,
Now in the deep, then on the shelves,
Had he, Arion like
Been judged to drown,
So rare a sown,
And jointly strive to bring him home.
Great Neptune, hear a swain !
His coffin take,
(For pity) make
Where ev'ry calmy morn I'll stand,
William BROWNE (1590–1645).
ELEGY ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON.
O DEATH! thou tyrant fell and bloody!
O'er hurcheon hides, And like stockfish came o'er his studdie
Wi' thy auld sides !
He's gane! he's gane! he's frae us torn,
By wood and wild,
Frae man exiled.
Ye hills, near neibours 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 !
Wi' toddlin' din,
Frae lin to lin.
Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea;
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie
In scented bowers; Ye roses on your thorny tree,
The first o' flowers.
At dawn, when every grassy blade
I'the rustling gale,
Come join my wail !
Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood;
Ye whistling plover;
He's gane for ever!
Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals;
Circling the lake;
Rair for his sake!
Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' day, ’Mang fields o' flowering clover gay; And when ye wing your annual way
Frae our cauld shore, Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay,
Wham we deplore.