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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 ?
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,
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 blissful place of rest ?
'Tis not the loss of love's assurance,
It is not doubting what thou art ; But 'tis the too, too long, endurance Of absence, that afflicts
The fondest thoughts two hearts can cherish,
When each is lonely doomed to weep,
Are fruits on desert isles that perish,
Or riches buried in the deep.
What though untouched by jealous madness,
Our bosom's peace may fall to wreck ;
Is but more slowly doomed to break.
Absence is not the soul torn by it,
From more than light or life or breath ? 'Tis Lethe's gloom, but not its quiet, The pain, without the peace of death.
Oh, for the swords of former time!
Oh for the men who bore them,
And tyrants crouched before them!
With honours to enslave him, The best honours worn by man
Were those which virtue gave him.
Oh, for the kings who flourished then !
that crowned them, When hearts and hands of freeborn men,
Were all the ramparts round them ! When safe built on bosoms true,
The throne was but the centre, Round which love a circle drew,
That treason durst not enter.
TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.
Sweet scented flower! who art wont to bloom
On January’s front severe,
To waft thy waste perfume !
And as I twine the mournful wreath,
The melody of death.
Come, funeral flower! who lovest to dwell
And throw across the desert gloom,
A sweet decaying smell :
And we will sleep a pleasant sleep,
So peaceful and so deep.
And hark! the wind god as he flies
Moans hollow in the forest trees,
Mysterious music dies.
The cold turf altar of the dead ;
H. K. White.