"The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend;

Nor shall she fail to see

Ev'n in the motions of the storm

Grace that shall mould the maiden's form

By silent sympathy.

'The stars of midnight shall be dear

To her; and she shall lean her ear

In many a secret place

Where rivulets dance their wayward round

And beauty born of murmuring sound
Shall pass into her face.

'And vital feelings of delight

Shall rear her form to stately height,

Her virgin bosom swell;

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give

While she and I together live

Here in this happy dell.'

Thus Nature spake—The work was done—

How soon my Lucy's race was run!

She died, and left to me

This heath, this calm and quiet scene;

The memory of what has been,

And never more will be.

W. Wordsworth.

SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL

A SLUMBER did my spirit seal;

I had no human fears:

She seem'd a thing that could not feel

The touch of earthly years.

No motion has she now, no force;

She neither hears nor sees;

Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course

With rocks, and stones, and trees.

W. Wordsworth.

ON SOUTHEY'S DEATH

FRIENDS, hear the words my wandering thoughts would say And cast them into shape some other day;

Southey, my friend of forty years, is gone,

And shattered by the fall, I stand alone.

W. S. Landor.

HIGHLAND MARY

YE banks and braes and streams around

The castle o' Montgomery,

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie!

There simmer first unfauld her robes,

And there the langest tarry;

For there I took the last fareweel

O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasp'd her to my bosom!
The golden hours on angel wings
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life

Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' mony a vow and lock'd embrace

Our parting was fu' tender;

And pledging aft to meet again,

We tore oursels asunder;

But, Oh! fell Death's untimely frost,
That nipt my flower sae early!

Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!

And closed for aye the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly;

And mouldering now in silent dust
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!

But still within my bosom's core

Shall live my Highland Mary.

R. Burns.

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.

ELEGY

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'd 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.

IN MEMORIAM

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 grievéd soul.

Thou straggler into loving arms,

Young climber up of knees,
When I forgot thy thousand ways

Then life and all shall cease!

M. Lamb.

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD

THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,

Each in his narrow cell forever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.