Come away: for Life and Thought Here no longer dwell; But in a city glorious, A great and distant city, have bought TENNYSON. LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN. YE scattered birds that faintly sing, The reliques of the vernal choir! Ye woods that shed on a' the winds The honors of the aged year! A few short months, and glad and gay, Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e; But nocht in all revolving time The bridegroom may forget the bride Was made his wedded wife yestreen; The monarch may forget the crown That on his head an hour has been; The mother may forget the child That smiles sae sweetly on her knee: But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, And a' that thou hast done for me! BURNS. Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, My wailing numbers! Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens! Or foaming strang, wi' hasty stens, Mourn, little harebells owre the lea; Ye stately foxgloves fair to see; In scented bowers; Ye roses on your thorny tree, The first o' flowers. 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! Go to your sculptured tombs, ye great, In a' the tinsel trash o' state; Thou man of worth! And weep the ae best fellow's fate E'er lay in earth. BURNS. And, hugging close, we will not feare Lust entering here; Where all desires are dead or cold, As is the mould; And all affections are forgot, Or trouble not. Here needs no court for our request, Where all are best; All wise, all equal, and all just Alike i' th' dust. Nor need we here to feare the frowne Of court or crown; Where fortune bears no sway o'er things, There all are kings. And for a while lye here concealed, To be revealed, Next, at that great platonick yeere, And then meet here. HERRICK. Each lovely scene shall thee restore, For thee the tear be duly shed; Beloved till life can charm no more, And mourned till Pity's self be dead. COLLINS. DIRGE FOR DORCAS. COME pitie us, all ye who see And when you are come hither, A fast, and weep For Tabitha, who dead lies here, Fear no more the frown o' th' great, Thou art past the tyrant's stroke: Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak: The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust. Fear no more the lightning-flash, Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; Fear not slander, censure rash: Thou hast finished joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust. SHAKSPEARE. ODE ON THE DEATH OF THOMSON. IN yonder grave a Druid lies, Where slowly winds the stealing wave; The year's best sweets shall duteous rise To deck its poet's sylvan grave. |