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, Yet there was round thee such a dawn As fancy never could have drawn, And never can restore! CHARLES WOLFE (1791-1823). XV. HESTER. WHEN maidens such as Hester die, A month or more hath she been dead, A springy motion in her gait, Of pride and joy no common rate I know not by what name beside It was a joy to that allied, She did inherit. Her parents held the Quaker rule, A waking eye, a prying mind, My sprightly neighbour, gone before When from thy cheerful eyes a ray XVI. CHARLES LAMB (1775-1834). THE SHEPHERD'S ELEGY. GLIDE soft, ye silver floods, And every spring. Within the shady woods Let no bird sing! Nor from the grove a turtle dove But silence on each dale and mountain dwell, But of great Thetis' train Ye mermaids fair That on the shores do plain As ye in trammels knit your locks Cease, cease, ye murmuring winds, To move a wave; But if with troubled minds You seek his grave, Know 'tis as various as yourselves Had he, Arion like Been judged to drown, He on his lute could strike So rare a sown, A thousand dolphins would have come Great Neptune, hear a swain! And with a golden chain (For pity) make It fast unto a rock near land! Where ev'ry calmy morn I'll stand, And ere one sheep out of my fold I tell, Şad Willy's pipe shall bid his friend farewell. WILLIAM BROWNE (1590–1645). XVII. ELEGY ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON. O DEATH! thou tyrant fell and bloody! Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie, And like stockfish came o'er his studdie 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. 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! Or foaming strang, wi' hasty stens, Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea; Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie Ye roses on your thorny tree, The first o' flowers. At dawn, when every grassy blade Ye maukins, whiddin' through the glade, Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood; Ye curlews, calling through a clud; And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood — Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals; Circling the lake; Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, Rair for his sake! Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' day, Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay, |