Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, Where is thy place of blissful rest? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ROBERT BURNS. O, SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM! O, SNATCHED away in beauty's bloom! Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the dead! Away! we know that tears are vain, [Composed by Burns, in September, 1789, on the anniversary of Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. the day on which he heard of the death of his early love, Mary Campbell.] THOU lingering star, with lessening ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? THE MAID'S LAMENT. LORD BYRON. I LOVED him not; and yet, now he is gone, I checked him while he spoke ; yet could he speak, For reasons not to love him once I sought, To vex myself and him : I now would give Who lately lived for me, and when he found He hid his face amid the shades of death! Who wasted his for me; but mine returns, With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, And waking me to weep Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years Wept he as bitter tears! "Merciful God!" such was his latest prayer, "These may she never share!" Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold Than daisies in the mold, Where children spell athwart the churchyard gate His name and life's brief date. Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er ye be, And O, pray, too, for me! WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. THY BRAES WERE BONNY. THY braes were bonny, Yarrow stream, When first on them I met my lover; Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream, When now thy waves his body cover. Forever now, O Yarrow stream! Thou art to me a stream of sorrow; For never on thy banks shall I Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow. He promised me a milk-white steed, He promised me a little page, To 'squire me to his father's towers; He promised me a wedding-ring, The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow; Now he is wedded to his grave, Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow! Sweet were his words when last we met; That I should nevermore behold him! His mother from the window looked The greenwood path to meet her brother. They sought him east, they sought him west, They sought him all the forest thorough; They only saw the cloud of night, They only heard the roar of Yarrow! No longer from thy window look, Thou hast no son, thou tender mother! No longer walk, thou lovely maid ; Alas, thou hast no more a brother! No longer seek him east or west, And search no more the forest thorough; For, wandering in the night so dark, He fell a lifeless corse in Yarrow. The tear shall never leave my cheek, And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow. MARY'S DREAM. THE moon had climbed the highest hill Her silver light on tower and tree, Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea, When, soft and slow, a voice was heard Say, "Mary, weep no more for me!" She from her pillow gently raised Her head, to ask who there might be, It lies beneath a stormy sea. "Three stormy nights and stormy days So, Mary, weep no more for me! “O maiden dear, thyself prepare; We soon shall meet upon that shore, And thou and I shall part no more!" "Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!" JOHN LOWE. TOO LATE. COULD ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do; Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. O to call back the days that are not! My eyes were blinded, your words were few : Do you know the truth now up in heaven, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true? I never was worthy of you, Douglas ; Now all men beside seem to me like shadows, – Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing See the white moon shines on high; Here, upon my true-love's grave All the coldness of a maid. With my hands I'll bind the briers Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, Water-witches, crowned with reytes, THOMAS CHATTERTON. The mountains now are mute: the heifers pass Slow-wandering by, nor browse the tender grass. Sicilian Muses, pour the dirge of woe: Sicilian Muses, pour the dirge of woe: I could descend to Pluto's house of night, From the Greek of MOSCHUS, LYCIDAS. [In memory of a young clerical friend of the poet's, drowned A. D. 1637.] YET once more, O ye laurels, and once more, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude; |