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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.
Perishing glooniily,
Spurr'd by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest.

- Cross her hands humbly
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast !
Owning her weakness,
Her evil behaviour,
And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour.

T. Hood


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'u 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


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 Aush'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.

Iler 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 Hesier.

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



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 !.

C. Wolfe


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 Aushing

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!

Sir W. Scott


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.

T. Hood


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-hearici

And artless as they.

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