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And keenly felt the friendly glow,
And sober flame;

But thoughtless follies laid him low,

And stained his name!

Reader, attend, —whether thy soul
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,
Or darkly grubs this earthly hole,

In low pursuit;
Know, prudent, cautious self-control

Is wisdom's root.

ROBERT BURNS.

ELEGY ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON.

He's gane, he's gane! he's free us torn, The ae best fellow e'er was born! Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel' shall mourn

By wood and wild, Where, haply, pity strays forlorn,

Frae man exiled.

Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns, That proudly cock your cresting cairns! Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns,*

Where echo slumbers! Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns,

My wailing numbers!

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens!
Ye hazelly shaws and briery dens!
Ye burnies, wimplin' down your glens,

Wi' toddlin' din.
Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens,

Frae lin to lin!

Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea,
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see;
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie

In scented bowers;
Ye roses on your thorny tree,

The firat o' flowers.

At dawn, when every grassy blade
Droops with a diamond at his head,
At even, when beans their fragrance shed,

l' the rustling gale, Ye maukins whiddin through the glade,

Come join my wail.

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood; Ye grouse that crap the heather bud; Ye curlews calling through a clud;

Ye whistling plover; And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood;

He's gane forever!

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals, Ye fisher herons, watching eels;

• Eagles.

Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels
Circling the lake;

Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels,
Rair for his sake.

Mourn, clamoring craiks at close o' day,
'Mang fields o' flowering clover gay;
And when ye wing your annual way

Frae our cauld shore,
Tell thae far warlds wha lies in clay,
Wham we deplore.

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bower,
In some auld tree, or eldritch tower,
What time the moon, wi' silent glower,

Sets up her horn,
Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour

Till waukrife morn.

0 rivers, forests, hills and plains! Oft have ye heard my canty strains: But now, what else for me remains

But tales of wo? And frae my een the dropping rains

Maun ever flow.

Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year! Ilk cowslip cup shall keep a tear: Thou, Simmer, while each corny spear Shoots up its head, Thy gay, green flowery tresses shear,

For him that's dead!

Thou, Autumn, wi' thy yellow hair,
In grief thy sallow mantle tear!
Thou, Winter, hurling through the air

The roaring blast,
Wide o'er the naked world declare

The worth we've lost.

Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light! Mourn, empress of the silent night! And you, ye twinkling starnies bright, My Matthew mourn! For thro' your orbs he's ta'en his flight, Ne'er to return.

0 Henderson, the man! the brother! And art thou gone, and gone forever! And hast thou crost that unknown river,

Life's dreary bound! Like thee where shall I find another,

The world around!

Go to your sculptured tombs, ye great,
In a' the tinsel trash o' state!
But by thy honest turf I 'll wait,

Thou man of worth!
And weep the ae best fellow's fate
E'er lay in earth.

Robert Burns. BYKON.

FROM "THE COURSE OF TIME."

Take one example — to our purpose quite.
A man of rank, and of capacious soul,
Who riches had, and fame, beyond desire,
An heir of flattery, to titles born,
And reputation, and luxurious life:
Yet, not content with ancestorial name,
Or to be known because his fathers were,
He on this height hereditary stood,
And, gazing higher, purposed in his heart
To take another step. Above him seemed,
Alone, the mount of song, the lofty seat
Of canonized bards; anil thitherward,
By nature taught, and inward melody,
In prime of youth, he bent his eagle eye.
No cost was spared. What books he wished, he
read;

What sage to hear, he heard; what scenes to see,
He saw. And first, in rambling school-boy days,
Britannia's mountain-w alks, and heath-girt lakes,
And story-telling glens, and founts, and brooks,
And maids, as dew-drops pure and fair, his soul
With grandeur filled, and melody, and love.
Then travel came, and took him where he wished:
He cities saw, aud courts, and princely pomp;
And mused alone on ancient mountain-brows;
And mused on battle-fields, where valor fought
In other days; and mused on ruins gray
With years ; and drank from old and fabulous
wells,

And plucked the vine that first-born prophets plucked;

And mused on famous tombs, and on the wave
Of ocean mused, aud on the desert waste;
The heavens and earth of every country saw:
Where'er the old inspiring Genii dwelt,
Alight that could rouse, expand, refme the soul,
Thither he went, and meditated there.

He touched his harp, and nations heard entranced.

As some vast river of unfailing source,
Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flowed,
And opened new fountains in the human heart.
Where Fancy halted, weary in her flight,
In other men, his fresh as morning rose,
And soared untrodden heights, and seemed at
home,

Where angels bashful looked. Others, though great,

Beneath theirargument seemed struggling; whiles
He, from above descending, stooped to touch
The loftiest thought; and proudly stooped, as
though

It scarce deserved his verse. With Nature's self
Ho seemed an old acquaintance, free to jest
At will with all her glorious majesty.

He laid his hand upon "the Ocean's mane,"
And played familiar with his hoary locks;
Stood on the Alps, stood on the Apennines,
And with the thunder talked as friend to friend;
And wove his garland of the lightning's wing,
In sportive twist, —the lightning's fiery wing,
Which, as the footsteps of the dreadful God,
Marching upon the storm in vengeance, seemed;
Then turned, and with the grasshopper, who sung
His evening song beneath his feet, conversed.
Suns, moons, and stars, and clouds his sisters
were;

Rocks, mountains, meteors, seas, and winds, and storms

His brothers, younger brothers, whom he scarce
As equals deemed. All passions of all lnon,
The wild and tame, the gentle aud severe;
All thoughts, all maxims, sacred and profane;
All creeds; all seasons, time, eternity;
All that was hated, and all that was dear;
All that was hoped, all that wasfeared, by man, —
He tossed about, as tempest-withered leaves;
Then, smiling, looked upon the wreck he made.
With terror now he froze the cowering blood,
And now dissolved the heart in tenderness;
Yet would not tremble, would not weep himself;
But back into his soul retired, alone,
Dark, sullen, proud, gazing contemptuously
On hearts and passions prostrate at his feet .
So Ocean, from the plains his waves had late
To desolation swept, retired in pride,
Exulting in the glory of his might,
And seemed to mock the ruin he had wrought .

As some fierce comet of tremendous size,
To which the stars did reverence as it passed,
So he, through learning and through fancy, took
His flights sublime, and on the loftiest top
Of Fame's dread mountain sat; not soiled and
worn,

As if he from the earth had labored up,
But as some bird of heavenly plumage fair
He looked, which down from higher regionscame,
And lurched it there, to see what lay beneath.
The nations gazed, and wondered much aud
praised.

Crities before him fell in humble plight;

Confounded fell; and made debasing signs

To catch his eye; and stretched and swelled

themselves
To bursting nigh, to utter bulky words
Of admiration vast; and many too,
Many that aimed to imitate his flight,
With weaker wing, unearthly fluttering made,
And gave abundant sport to after days.
Great man! the nations gazed and wondered
much.

And praised ; and many called his evil good.
Wits wrote in favor of his wickedness;

And kings to do him honor took delight.
Thus full of titles, flattery, honor, fame;
Beyond desire, beyond ambition, full, —
He died, — he died of what? Of wretchedness;
Drank every cup of joy, heard every trump
Of fame; drank early, deeply drank; drank
draughts

That common millions might have quenched, — then died

Of thirst, because there was no more to drink.
His goddess, Nature, wooed, embraced, enjoyed,
Fell from his arms, abhorred ; his passions died;
Died, all but dreary, solitary Pride;
And all his sympathies in being died.
As some ill-guided bark, well built and tall,
Which angry tides cast out on desert shore,
And then, retiring, left it there to rot
And molder in the winds and rains of heaven;
So he, cut from the sympathies of life,
And cast ashore from pleasure's boisterous surge,
A wandering, weary, worn, and wretched thing,
A scorched and desolate and blasted soul,
A gloomy wilderness of dying thought, —
Repined, and groaned, and withered from the
earth.

His groauings filled the land his numbers filled; And yet he seemed ashamed to groan. — Poor man!

Ashamed to ask, and yet he needed help.

Robert Pollok.

TO CAMPBELL.

True bard and simple, — as the race
Of heaven-born poets always are,

When stooping from their starry place
They 're children near, though gods afar.

Thomas Moore.

CAMP-BELL.

CHARADE.

Come from my first, ay, come!

The battle dawn is nigh; And the screaming trump and the thundering drum

Are calling thee to die!

Fight as thy father fought;

Fall as thy father fell;
Thy task is taught; thy shroud is wrought;

So forward and farewell!

Toll ye my second, toll!

Fling high the flambeau's light, And sing the hymn for a parted soul

Beneath the silent night!

The wreath upon his head,

The cross upon his breast, Let the prayer be said and the tear be shed,

So, — take him to his rest!

Call ye my whole, — ay, call

The lord of lute and lay; And let him greet the sable pall

With a noble song to-day.

Go, call him by his name!

No fitter hand may crave
To light the flame of a soldier's fame

On the turf of a soldier's grave.

WlNTHROP MACKWORTH PRAFD.

TO THOMAS MOORE.

My boat is on the shore,

And my bark is on the sea; But hcforc I go, Tom Moore,

Here's a double health to thee!

Here's a sigh to those who love me,
And a smile to those who hate;

And, whatever sky's above me,
Here's a heart for every fate!

Though the ocean roar around me,

Yet it still shall bear me on; Though a desert should surround me,

It hath springs that may be won.

Were't the last drop in the well,

As I gasped upon the brink, Ere my fainting spirit fell,

'T is to thee that I would driuk.

With that water, as this wine,

The libation I would pour Should be, — Peace with thine and mine,

And a health to thee, Tom Moore!

LORD BYRON.

BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried;

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly, at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;

By the struggling moonbeams' misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;

But he lay, like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the jirayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,'
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er
his head,
And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they 'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;

But little he 'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him!

But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock tolled the hour for retiring;

And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory!

We cawed not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone in his glory.

CHARLES WOLFE.

TO JOHN LAMB, ESQ.,* OF THE SOUTH-SEA
HOUSE.

John, you were figuring in the gay career
Of blooming manhood with a young man's joy,
When I was yet a little peevish boy —
Though time has made the difference disappear
Betwixt our ages, which then seemed so great —
And still by rightful custom you retain
Much of the old authoritative strain,
And keep the elder brother up in state.
0, you do well in this! 'T is man's worst deed
To let the "things that have been" run to waste,
And in the unmeaning present sink the past:
In whose dim glass even now I faintly read
Old buried forms, and faces long ago,
Which you, and I, and one more, only know.

Charles Lamb.

ON MISS MARIA TREE,

THE ENGLISH SINGER.

On this Tree when a nightingale settles and sings Tho Tree will return her as good as she brings.

Henry Luttrell.

• Elder brother of the poeL

EMMET'S EPITAPH.

[Robert Emmet, the celebrated Irish revolutionist, at his trial for high treason, which resulted in his conviction and execution, Sep. tembcr ao, 1803, made an eloquent and pathetic defense, concluding with these words: "Let there be no inscription upon my tomb. Let no man write my epitaph. Let my character and my motives repose in security and peace till other times and other men can do them Iustice. Then shall my character be vindicated; then may my epitaph be written. I have done." It was immediately upon reading this speech that the following lines were written.]

"Let no man write my epitaph; let my grave
Be uninscribed, and let my memory rest
Till other times are come, and other men,
Who then may do me justice."

Emmet, no!
No withering curse hath dried my spirit up,
That I should now be silent, — that my soul
Should from the stirring inspiration shrink,
Now when it shakes her, and withhold her voice,
Of that divinest impulse nevermore
Worthy, if impious I withheld it now,
Hardening my heart. Here, here in this free
Isle,

To which in thy young virtue's erring zeal
Thou wert so perilous an enemy,
Here in free England shall an English hand
Build thy imperishable monument;
0, to thine own misfortune and to ours,
By thine own deadly error so beguiled,
Here in free England shall an English voice
Raise up thy mourning-soug. For thou hast
paid

The bitter penalty of that misdeed;
Justice hath done her unrelenting part,
If she in truth be Justice who drives on,
Bloody and blind, the chariot-wheels of death.

So young, so glowing for the general good,
0, what a lovely manhood had been thine,
When all the violent workings of thy youth
Had passed away, hadst thou been wisely spared,
Left to the slow and certain influences
Of silent feeling and maturing thought!
How had that heart, —that noble heart of thine,
Which even now had snapped one spell, which
beat

With such brave indignation at the shame
And guilt of France, and of her miscreant lord,—
How had it clung to England! With what love,
What pure and perfect love, returned to her,
Now worthy of thy love, the champion now
For freedom, — yea, the only champion now,
And soon to be the avenger. But the blow
Hath fallen, the undiscriminating blow,
That for its portion to the grave consigned
Youth, Genius, generous Virtue. 0, grief, grief!
0, sorrow and reproach I Have ye to learn,
Deaf to the past, and to the future blind,
Ye who thus irremissibly exact

The forfeit life, how lightly life is staked,
When in distempered times the feverish mind
To strong delusion yields? Have ye to learn
With what a deep and spirit-stirring voice
Pity doth call Revenge l Have ye no hearts
To feel and understand how Mercy tames
The rebel nature, maddened by old wrongs,
And binds it in the gentle bands of love,
When steel and adamant were weak to hold
That Samson-strength subdued!

Let no man write
Thy epitaph! Emmet, nay; thou shalt not go
Without thy funeral strain! 0 young and good,
And wise, though erring here, thou shalt not go
Unhonored or unsung. And better thus
Beneath that undiscriminating stroke,
Better to fall, than to have lived to mourn,
As sure thou wouldst, in misery and remorse,
Thine own disastrous triumph ; to have seen,
If the Almighty at that awful hour
Had turned away his face, wild Ignorance
Let loose, and frantic Vengeance, and dark
zeal,

And all bad passions tyrannous, and the fires

Of Persecution once again ablaze.

How had it sunk into thy soul to see,

Last curse of all, the ruflian slaves of France

In thy dear native country lording it!

How happier thus, in that heroic mood

That takes away the sting of death, to die,

By all the good and all the wise forgiven!

Yea, in all ages by the wise and good

To be remembered, mourned, and honored still!

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

DEATH-BED OF BOMBA, KING OF NAPLES,

AT BARt, 1855.

Could I pass those lounging sentries, through

the nloe-bordered entries, up the sweep of

squalid stair, On through chamber after chamber, where the

sunshine's gold and amber turn decay to

beauty rare,

I should reach a guarded portal, where for strife of issue mortal, face to face two kings are met:

One the grisly King of Terrors ; one a Bourbon, with his errors, late to conscience-clearing set.

Well his fevered pulse may flutter, and the priests

their mass may mutter with such fervor

as they may: Cross and chrism, and genuflection, mop and

mow, and interjection, will not frighten

Death away.

By the dying despot sitting, at the hard heart's portals hitting, shocking the dull brain to work,

Death makes clear what life has hidden, chides

what life has left unchidden, quickens truth

life tried to burke. He but ruled within his borders after Holy

Church's orders, did what Austria bade him

do;

By their guidance flogged and tortured ; highborn men and gently nurtured chained with crime's felonious crew.

What if summer fevers gripped them, what if winter freezings nipped them, till they rotted in their chains?

He had word of Pope and Kaiser; none could holier be or wiser; theirs the counsel, his the reins.

So he pleads excuses eager, clutching, with his fmgers meager, at the bedelothes as he speaks;

But King Death sits grimly grinning at the Bourbon's cobweb-spinning, — as each cobweb-cable breaks.

And the poor soul, from life's eylot, rudderless, without a pilot, drifteth slowly down the dark;

While mid rolling incense vapor, chanted dirge, and flaring taper, lies the body, stiff and stark.

Punch.

0, BREATHE NOT HIS NAME I

ROBERT EMMET.

0, Breathe not his name! let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonored his relies are laid; Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed, As the night-dew that falls on the grave o'er his head.

But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps,

Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps;

And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

Thomas Moore.

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE.

DIED IN NEW YORK, SEPTEMBER, 182a

Green be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days!

None knew thee but to love thee,
Nor named thee but to praise.

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