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The envy

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 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,

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.

'The blackening wave is edged with white ;

To inch and rock the sea-mews fly ; The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite,

Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh. • Last night the gifted Seer did view

A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay ; Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch ;

Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?' « Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir

To-night at Roslin leads the ball, But that my ladye-mother there

Sits lonely in her castle-hall. ''Tis not because the ring they ride,

And Lindesay at the ring rides well, But that my sire the wine will chide

If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle.' -O'er Roslin all that dreary night

A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam ; 'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light,

And redder than the bright moonbeam. It glared on Roslin's castled rock,

It ruddied all the copse-wood glen; 'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak,

And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden. Seemd all on fire that chapel proud

Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie, Each Baron, for a sable shroud,

Sheathed in his iron panoply. Seem'd all on fire within, around,

Deep sacristy and altar's pale ; Shone every pillar foliage-bound,

And glimmer'd all the de:d men's mail. Blazed battlement and pinnet high,

Blazed every rose-carved buttress fairSo still they blaze, when fate is nigh

The lordly line of high Saint Clair.

There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold

Lie buried within that proud chapelle ;
Each one the holy vault doth hold-

But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle.
And each Saint Clair was buried there,

With candle, with book, and with knell ;
But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung
The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.

Sir W. Scott



I saw wherein the shroud did lurk
A curious frame of Nature's work ;
A flow'ret crushed in the bud,
A nameless piece of Babyhood,
Was in her cradle-coffin lying ;
Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying :
So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb
For darker closets of the tomb !
She did but ope an eye, and put
A clear beam sotth, then straight up shut
For the long dark : ne'er more to see
Through glasses of mortality.
Riddle of destiny, who can show
What thy short visit meant, or know
What thy errand here below ?
Shall we say, that Nature blind
Check'd her hand, and changed her mind
Just when she had exactly wrought
A finish'd pattern without fault ?
Could she flag, or could she tire,
Or lack'd she the Promethean fire
(With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd)
That should thy little limbs have quicken'd ?
Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure
Life of health, and days mature :
Woman's self in miniature !

Limbs so fair, they might supply
(Themselves now but cold imagery)
The sculptor to make Beauty by.
Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry
That babe or mother, one must die ;
So in mercy left the stock
And cut the branch; to save the shock
Of young years widow'd, and the pain
When Single State comes back again
To the lone man who, reft of wife,
Thenceforward drags a maiméd life?
The economy of Heaven is dark,
And wisest clerks have miss'd. the mark
Why human buds, like this, should fall,
More brief than fly ephemeral
That has his day; while shrivell’d crones
Stiffen with age to stocks and stones ;
And crabbéd use the conscience sears
In sinners of an hundred years.
– Mother's prattle, mother's kiss,
Baby fond, ihou ne'er wilt miss :
Rites, which custom does impose,
Silver bells, and baby clothes ;
Coral redder than those lips
Which pale death did late eclipse ;
Music framed for infants' glee,
Whistle never tuned for thee;
Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them,
Loving hearts were they which gave them.
Let not one be missing ; nurse,
See them laid upon the hearse
Of infant slain by doom perverse.
Why should kings and nobles have
Pictured trophies to their grave,
And we, churls, to thee deny
Thy pretty toys with thee to lie-
A more harmless vanity ?

C. Lamb


A child's a plaything for an hour;

Its pretty tricks we try
For that or for a longer space, -

Then tire, and lay it by.
But I knew one that to itself

All seasons could control;
That would have mock'd the sense of pain

Out of a grieved soul.
Thou straggler into loving arms,

Young climber up of knees,
When I forget thy thousand ways
Then life and all shall cease!

M. Lamb


Where art thou, my beloved Son,
Where art thou, worse to me than dead?
Oh find me, prosperous or undone !
Or if the grave be now thy bed,
Why am I ignorant of the same
That I may rest ; and neither blame
Nor sorrow may attend thy name?
Seven years, alas ! to have received
No tidings of an only child-
To have despair'd, have hoped, believed,
And been for ever more beguiled, —
Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss !
I catch at them, and then I miss;
Was ever darkness like to this?
He was among the prime in worth,
An object beauteous to behold ;
Well born, well bred; I sent him forth
Ingenuous, innocent, and bold :
If things ensued that wanted grace
As hath been said, they were not base ;
And never blush was on niy face.

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