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Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that livest unseen
Within thy aery shell,
Where the love-lorn nightingale
That likest thy Narcissus are ?
O, if thou have
Tell me but where,
So may'st thou be translated to the skies,
TO MARY IN HEAVEN.
Thou lingering star, with lessening ray,
That lovest to greet the early morn, Again thou usherest in the day
My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade !
Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ?
Hearest thou the groans that rend his breast ?
That sacred hour can I forget,
Can I forget the hallowed grove Where by the winding Ayr we met,
To live one day of parting love ? Eternity will not efface
Those records dear of transports past
Thy image at our last embrace !
Ah! little thought we 'twas our last !
Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,
O'erhung with wild woods, thickening, green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twined amorous round the raptured scene. The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sang love on every spray, Till too, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaimed the speed of winged day.
Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care; Time but the impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.
Where is thy place of blissful rest ?
TO THE PRIMROSE.
Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire !
Was nursed in whirling storms,
Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter's sway,
Thee on this bank he threw
In this low vale, the promise of the year,
Unnoticed and alone,
So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms
Of life she rears her head,
While every bleaching breeze that on her blows
And hardens her to bear
ARCHES on arches! as it were that Rome,
Of contemplation; and the azure gloom
Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven,
A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant
For which the palace of the present hour
And here the buzz of
nations ran, In murmured pity, or loud-roared applause, As man was slaughtered by his fellow man. And wherefore slaughtered? wherefore, but because Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws, And the imperial pleasure.—Wherefore not? What matters where we fall, to fill the maws
Of worms-on battle-plains or listed spot ? Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot.
I see before me the Gladiator lie:
The arena swims around him—he is gone,
He heard it, but he heeded not-his eyes
All this rushed with his blood. Shall he expire, And unavenged? Arise ! ye Goths, and glut your ire!
But here, where Murder breathed her bloody steam ;
On the arena void-seats crushed—walls bowed
A ruin-yet what ruin! from its mass
It will not bear the brightness of the day,
have reft away.
But when the rising moon begins to climb
Then in this magic circle raise the dead :