I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair: I hear her charm the air: There's not a bonnie flower that springs, HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 1785-1806. TO THE HERB ROSEMARY. SWEET-Scented flower! who are wont to bloom And o'er the wintry desert drear To waft thy waste perfume! Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now, And, as I twine the mournful wreath, I'll weave a melancholy song : And sweet the strain shall be and long, Come, funeral flower! who lovest to dwell Come, press my lips, and lie with me And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, And not a care shall dare intrude, 1 And, hark! the wind-god, as he flies, Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine, My grave shall be in yon lone spot, A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shee THE DANCE OF THE CONSUMPTIVES. DING-DONG! ding-dong! Ding-dong! ding-dong! Over the heath, over the moor, and over the dale Swinging slow with sullen roar." Dance, dance away the jocund roundelay! Round the oak, and round the elm, Merry, merry go the bells, It keeps its post, And soon, and soon our sports must fail: But let us trip the nightly ground, While the merry, merry bells ring round. Hark! hark! the death-watch ticks; Our dance is done, Our race is run, And we must lie at the alder's feet! Ding-dong! ding-dong! Swinging o'er the weltering wave! Our deathbeds bleak, Where the green sod grows upon the grave. The Goddess of Consumption. Come, Melancholy, sister mine! Cold the dews, and chill the night! Come from thy dreary shrine ! The wan moon climbs the heavenly height, And underneath the sickly ray, Troops of squalid spectres play, And the dying mortals' groan Startles the Night on her dusky throne. Gliding on the pale moonshine : We'll ride at ease, On the tainted breeze, And, oh! our sport will be divine. The Goddess of Melancholy. Sister, from my dark abode, Where nests the raven, sits the toad, Hither I come at thy command: Sister, sister, join thy hand! Sister, sister, join thy hand! Lay our snares, and spread our tether! And the grass shall wave Where youth and beauty sleep together. Come, let us speed our way! Thou shalt smooth the way for me; O'er many a grave Where youth and beauty sleep together. Hist! sister, hist! who comes here? And she is thine, Now the deadliest draught prepare. Consumption. In the dismal night-air dress'd, Flush her cheek, and bleach her skin, On heavenly diet When death has deflower'd her eye. THE SHIPWRECKED SOLITARY'S SONG TO THE NIGHT. THOU spirit of the spangled night! I woo thee from the watch-tower high, The winds are whistling o'er the wolds, Sweet is the scented gale of morn, That marks thy mournful reign. And I have linger'd in the shade, And I have hail'd the gray morn high But never could I tune my reed, The day-spring brings not joy to me, |