CCLXXV ELEGY Oh snatch'd away in beauty's bloom! Their leaves, the earliest of the year, Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead! Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. Lord Byron CCLXXVI 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 She did inherit. Iler parents held the Quaker rule, A waking eye, a prying mind, My sprightly neighbour ! gone before C. Lamb CCLXXVII TO MARY If I had thought thou couldst have died, That thou couldst mortal be: And still upon that face I look, And think 'twill smile again; And still the thought I will not brook And now I feel, as well I may, Sweet Mary! thou art dead! If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art, I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been. I do not think, where'er thou art, And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart, 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 CCLXXVIII CORONACH He is gone on the mountain, 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 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, Sir W. Scott CCLXXIX THE DEATH BED We watch'd her breathing thro' the night, So silently we seem'd to speak, As we had lent her half our powers Our very hopes belied our fears, For when the morn came dim and sad T. Hood CCLXXX AGNES I saw her in childhood- I saw her again— A fair girl of eighteen, The glory of one. Years, years fleeted over- A dignified mother, Her infant she bore; I saw her once more 'Twas the day that she died; O then, I felt, then She was fairest of all! H. F. Lyte CCLXXXI 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! And, gentle ladye, deign to stay! Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. |