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And keenly felt the friendly glow,
But thoughtless follies laid him low,
And stained his name!
Reader, attend, —whether thy soul
In low pursuit;
Is wisdom's root.
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!
Wi' toddlin' din.
Frae lin to lin!
Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea,
In scented bowers;
The firat o' flowers.
At dawn, when every grassy blade
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;
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels,
Mourn, clamoring craiks at close o' day,
Frae our cauld shore,
Ye houlets, frae your ivy bower,
Sets up her horn,
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,
The roaring blast,
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,
Thou man of worth!
Robert Burns. BYKON.
FROM "THE COURSE OF TIME."
Take one example — to our purpose quite.
What sage to hear, he heard; what scenes to see,
And plucked the vine that first-born prophets plucked;
And mused on famous tombs, and on the wave
He touched his harp, and nations heard entranced.
As some vast river of unfailing source,
Where angels bashful looked. Others, though great,
Beneath theirargument seemed struggling; whiles
It scarce deserved his verse. With Nature's self
He laid his hand upon "the Ocean's mane,"
Rocks, mountains, meteors, seas, and winds, and storms
His brothers, younger brothers, whom he scarce
As some fierce comet of tremendous size,
As if he from the earth had labored up,
Crities before him fell in humble plight;
Confounded fell; and made debasing signs
To catch his eye; and stretched and swelled
And praised ; and many called his evil good.
And kings to do him honor took delight.
That common millions might have quenched, — then died
Of thirst, because there was no more to drink.
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.
True bard and simple, — as the race
When stooping from their starry place
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;
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
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, whatever sky's above me,
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!
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
We buried him darkly, at dead of night,
By the struggling moonbeams' misty light,
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay, like a warrior taking his rest,
Few and short were the jirayers we said,
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,'
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er
Lightly they 'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
But little he 'll reck, if they let him sleep on
But half of our heavy task was done,
And we heard the distant and random gun
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.
TO JOHN LAMB, ESQ.,* OF THE SOUTH-SEA
John, you were figuring in the gay career
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.
• Elder brother of the poeL
[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
To which in thy young virtue's erring zeal
The bitter penalty of that misdeed;
So young, so glowing for the general good,
With such brave indignation at the shame
The forfeit life, how lightly life is staked,
Let no man write
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!
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
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
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
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.
0, BREATHE NOT HIS NAME I
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.
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE.
DIED IN NEW YORK, SEPTEMBER, 182a
Green be the turf above thee,
None knew thee but to love thee,