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And the grass shall wave
O'er many a grave
I will furnish food for thee,
And the grass shall wave
O’er many a grave
She is mine,
And she is thine,
The worm it will riot
On heavenly diet
THE SHIPWRECKED SOLITARY'S SONG TO THE NIGHT.
Thou spirit of the spangled night!
Of lonely mariner.
A melancholy song!
That marks thy mournful reign.
A solitary man
To sing my evening song.
To hymns of harmony.
I hail'd thy starbeam mild.
My woes are mix'd with joy.
And then I talk, and often think
A solitary man.
And when the blust'ring winter winds
And pleasant are my dreams.
And Fancy gives me back my wife;
And all its placid joys.
Then hateful is the morning hour,
The same dull sounds again.
The deep-toned winds, the moaning sea,
The condor's hollow scream.
THE LULLABY OF A FEMALE CONVICT TO HER CÉILD THE
NIGHT PREVIOUS TO EXECUTION.
Thy cries they pierce again my bleeding breast ; Sleep, baby mine, not long thou'lt have a mother
To lull thee fondly in her arms to rest.
Baby, why dost thou keep this sad complaining, · Long from mine eyes have kindly slumbers fled; Hush, hush, my babe, the night is quickly waning,
And I would fain compose my aching head.
Poor wayward wretch! and who will heed thy weep
When soon an outcast on the world thou'lt be? Who then will sooth thee when thy mother's sleep
In her low grave of shame and infamy? (ing Sleep, baby mine; to-morrow I must leave thee,
And I would snatch an interval of rest: Sleep these last moments, ere the laws bereave thee,
For never more thou'lt press a mother's breast.
Where, far from cities, I may spend my days,
May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways. While on the rock I mark the browsing goat,
List to the mountain-torrent's distant noise, Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note,
I shall not want the world's delusive joys ; But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre,
Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more;
I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore,
Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave.
Mrs. COCKBURN. 1679–1749.
THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.
I've tasted her favours and felt her decay;
But soon it is fled-it is fled far away.
I've seen the forest adorn'd of the foremost,
With flowers of the fairest, both pleasant and gay: Full sweet was their blooming, their scent the air
perfuming, But now they are wither'd, and a' wede awae. I've seen the morning with gold the hills adorning,
And the red storm roaring before the parting day; I've seen Tweed's silver streams, glittering in the
sunny beams, Turn drumly and dark as they rolled on their way. Oh fickle Fortune! why this cruel sporting ?
Why thus perplex us poor sons of a day? [me, Thy frowns cannot fear me, thy smiles cannot cheer
Since the flowers of the forest are a' wede awae.
JOHN LEYDEN. 1800.
Whose melting tones of tender wo,
Which in the vales of Tiviot blow.
The Celtic warrior's parted shade;
Where shipwreck'd mariners are laid.
Ah! sure, as Hindú legends tell,