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He promised me a milk-white steed, | They little knew, who loved him

To bear me to his father's bowers; He promised me a little pare,

The fearful death he met, To squire me to his father's towers; | When shouting o’er the desert snow, He promised me a wedding-ring

Unarmed, and hard beset; The wedding-day was fixed tomorrow:

Nor how, when round the frosty Now he is wedded to his grave, Alas, his watery grave in Yarrow! The northern dawn was red,

The mountain wolf and wildcat His mother from the window looked,

stole With all the longing of a mother; To banquet on the dead; Ilis little sister weeping walked The greenwood path to meet her Nor how, when strangers found his brother:

bones, They sought him east, they sought They dressed the hasty bier, him west,

And marked his grave with nameless They sought him all the forest

stones, thorough;

Unmoistened by a tear. They only saw the cloud of night, They only heard the roar of Yarrow. But long they looked, and feared,

and wept, No longer from the window look; Within his distant home; Thou hast no son, thoil tender And dreamed, and started as they mother!

slept, No longer walk, thou lovely maid; For joy that he was come.

Alas! thou hast no more a brother! No longer seek him east or west, So long they looked; but never No longer search the forest thor

spied ough;

IIis welcome step again, For wandering in the night so dark, Nor knew the fearful death he died He fell a lifeless corse in Yarrow. Far down that narrow glen. Join LOGAN.


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Come away: for Life and Thought | Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest Here no longer dwell;

bairus, But in a city glorious,

My wailing numbers! A great and distant city, have bought A mansion incorruptible.

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens! Would they could have staid with | Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens! us!

Ye burnies, whimplin' down your TENNYSON.


Wi' todlin' din,

Or foaming strang, wi' hasty stens, LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF

Frae lin to lin! GLENCAIRN. YE scattered brids that faintly

Mourn, little harebells owre the sing, The reliques of the vernal choir!

Ye stately foxgloves fair to see; Ye woods that shed on a’ the winds

Ye woodbines hanging bounilie, The honors of the aged year!

In scented bowers; A few short months, and glad and

Ye roses on your thory tree,

The first o' flowers. gay, Again ye'll charm the ear and ee;

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the But nocht in all revolving time

wood; Can gladness bring again to me.

Ye grouse that crap the lieather

bud; The bridegroom may forget the Ye curlews calling through a clud; bride

Te whistling ploser; Was made his wedded wife yes- | And mour, ye whirring paitrick treen;

brood! The monarch may forget the crown

He's gane forever! That on his head an hour has been;

Go to your sculptured tombs, ve The mother may forget the child

great, That smiles sae sweetly on her | In a' the tinsel trash o' state; knee:

But by thy honest turf I'll wait, But I'll remember thee, Glencairn,

Thou man of worth! And a'that thou hast done for me! And weep the ae best fellow's fate BURNS.

E'er lay in earth.



HE'S GANE. . . . . . . . I TO HIS WINDING-SHEET. HE's gane! he's gane! he's frae us | COME thou, wlio art the wine and

wit The ae best fellow e'er was born!

Of all I've writ: Thee, Matthew, nature's seľ shall The grace, the glorie, and the best mourn

Piece of the rest: By wood and wild, Thou art of what I did intend Where, haply, pity strays forlorn,

The all, and end; Frae man exiled. And what was made, was made to

meet Ye hills, near neebors o' the starus,

Thee, thee, my sheet; That proudly cock your cresting | Come then, and be to my chaste cairns!

side Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing

Both bed and bride. yearns,

We two, as reliques left, will have Where Echo slumbers,

One rest, one grave;

Of the unsteady planets. O'tis well With him! but who knows what the

coming hour Veiled in thick darkness brings for


And, hugging close, we will not feare

Lust entering here; Where all desires are dead or cold,

As is the mould; And all affections are forgot,

Or trouble not. Here needs no court for our request,

Where all are best; All wise, all equal, and all just

Alike i th’ dust. Nor need we here to feare the frowne

Of court or crown; Where fortune bears no sway o'er things,

There all are kings. And for a while lye here concealed,

To be revealed, Next, at that great platonick yeere,

And then meet here.


That anguish will be wearied down,

I know; What pang is permanent with man?

from the highest As from the vilest thing of every day He learns to wean himself; for the

strong hours Conquer him. Yet I feel what I

have lost In him. The bloom is vanished

from my life. For 0! he stood beside me, like my

youth, Transformed for me the real to a

dream, Clothing the palpable and familiar With golden exhalations of the

dawn. Whatever fortunes wait my future

toils, The beautiful is vanished — and re

turns not.

COLERIDGE: Wallenstein.


How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, By all their country's wishes blessed! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed

mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

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mishap. Far off is he, above desire and fear; No more submitted to the change

and chance

If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon,
Every night and alle,
Sit thee down and put them on,
And Christ receive thy soule.

If hosen and shoon thou never gav'st

none, Every night and alle, The whinnes shall prick thee to the

bare bone, And Christ receive thy saule.

From whinny-Muir when thou | And thou repose beneath the whismayest passe,

pering tree, Every night and alle,

One tribute more to this submisTo Purgatory fire thou comest at

sive ground;last,

Prison thy soul from malice, bar out And Christ receive thy saule.


Nor these pale flowers nor this still If ever thou gavest meat or drink,

field deride: Every night and alle, The tire shall never make thee shrink, Rather to those ascents of being And Christ receive thy saule.


Where a ne'er-setting sun illumes If meat or drink thou never gavest

the year hone,

Eternal, and the incessant watchEvery night and alle,

fires bun The fire will burn thee to the bare Of unspent holiness and goodness

clear, And Christ receive thy saule.

Forget man's littleness, deserve the

best, This ae night, this ae night,

God's mercy in thy thought and Every night and alle,

life confest. Fire and sleet and candle-light,

CHAXNING. And Christ receive thy saule.





No abbey's gloom, nor dark cathedral

stoops, No winding torches paint the mid

niglit air; Here the green pines deliglit, the as

pen droops Along the modest patlıways, and

those fair Pale asters of the season spread their

plunes Around this field, fit garden for our


To fair Fidele's grassy tomb
Soft maids and village hinds shall

Each opening sweet of earliest

And rifle all the breathing spring.
No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet

But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their lore.

No withered witch shall here be seen;

No goblins lead their nightly crew: The female fays shall haunt the

green, And dress thy grave with pearly


And shalt thou pause to hear some

funeral bell Slow stealing o'er tly heart in this

calm place, Not with a throb of pain, a feverish

kuell, But in its kind and supplicating

grace, It says, Go, pilgrim, on thy march,

be more Friend to the friendless than thou

wast before; . Learn from the loved one's rest se

renity; To-morrow that soft bell for thee

The redbreast oft, at evening hours,

Shall kindly lend his little aid, With hioary moss, and gathered flow

ers, To deck the ground where thoil

art laid.

When howling winds and beating rain

In tempests shake the sylvan cell. Or ’midst the chase, on every plair, The tender thought on thee shall Each lovely scene shall thee restore, | Sleep with thy beauties here, while we

shall sound,


For thee the tear be duly shed; Will show these garments made by Beloved till life can charm no more,

thee; And mourned till Pity's self be These were the coats, in these are read dead.

The monuments of Dorcas dead: COLLINS. These were thy acts, and thou shalt


These hung, as honors o'er thy grave, DIRGE FOR DORCAS.

And after us, distressed,

Should fame be dumb, COME pitie us, all ye who see

Thy very tomb Our larps hung on the willow-tree; Would cry out, Thou art blessed. Come pitie us, ye passers-by,

Who see or hear poor widows crie;
Come pitie us, and bring your eares
And eyes to pitie widows' teares,
And when you are come hither,

Then we will keep
A fast, and weep

He is gone on the mountain,
Our eyes out all together,

He is lost to the forest,

Like a summer-dried fountain, For Tabitha, who dead lies here,

When our need was the sorest. Clean washt, and laid out for the bier. The fount, re-appearing, () modest matrons, weep and waile! From the raindrop shall borrow, For now the corne and wine must But to us comes no cheering, faile;

To Duncan no morrow!
The basket and the bynn of bread,
Wherewith so many soules were fed, The hand of the reaper
Stand empty here forever;

Takes the cars that are hoary;
And ah! the poore,

But the voice of the weeper
At thy worne doore,

Wails manhood in glory.
Shall be relieved never.

The autumn winds rushing

Waft the leaves that are searest; But ah, alas! the almond-bough But our flower was in flushing And olive-branch is withered now; When blighting was nearest. The wine-presse now is ta'en from

Fleet foot on the correi, The saffron and the calamus;

Sage counsel in cumber, The spice and spiknard hence is Red hand in the foray, gone,

Ilow sound is thy slumber!
The storax and the cynamon;

Like the dew on the mountain,
The caroll of our gladnesse

Like the foam on the river,
Has taken wing,

Like the bubble on the fountain,
And our late spring

Thou art gone, and forcyer!
Of mirth is turned to sadnesse.




How wise wast thon in all thy waies!
How worthy of respect and praise!
How matron-like diilst thou go drest!
How soberly above the rest
Of those that prank it with their

And jet it with their choice per-

Thy vestures were not flowing;

Nor did the street

Accuse thy feet
Of mincing in their going.

FEAR no more the heat o' th' su,

Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast doire, Home art yone, and ta’en thy

wages.. Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

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