TO MARY IN HEAVEN. Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, My Mary from my soul was torn. Where is thy place of blissful rest ? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st 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, Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? Burns. ABSENCE. 'Tis not the loss of love's assurance, The fondest thoughts two hearts can cherish, Are fruits on desert isles that perish, Or riches buried in the deep. What though untouched by jealous madness, Absence!-is not the soul torn by it, 'Tis Lethe's gloom, but not its quiet, Campbell. TO FREEDOM. Oh, for the swords of former time! When, armed for right, they stood sublime, When pure yet, ere courts began With honours to enslave him, The best honours worn by man Were those which virtue gave him. Oh, for the kings who flourished then! The throne was but the centre, Round which love a circle drew, That treason durst not enter. Moore TO THE HERB ROSEMARY. Sweet scented flower! who art wont to bloom On January's front severe, And o'er the wintry desert drear To waft thy waste perfume! Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now, I'll weave a melancholy song: And sweet the strain shall be and long, Come, funeral flower! who lovest to dwell And throw across the desert gloom, And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, And hark! the wind god as he flies And sailing on the gusty breeze, Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine, It warns me to the lonely shrine, The cold turf altar of the dead; My grave shall be in yon lone spot, Where as I lie, by all forgot, A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed. H. K. White. |