I see her in the dewy flowers,

I see her sweet and fair:
I hear her in the tunefu' birds,

I hear her charm the air:

There's not a bonnie flower that springs,
By mountain, shaw, or green,
There's not a bonnie bird that sings,
But minds me o' my Jean.

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

1785-1806.

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.

SWEET-Scented flower! who are wont to bloom
On January's front severe,

And o'er the wintry desert drear

To waft thy waste perfume!

Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now,
And I will bind thee round my brow;

And, as I twine the mournful wreath,

I'll weave a melancholy song :

And sweet the strain shall be and long,
The melody of death.

Come, funeral flower! who lovest to dwell
With the pale corse in lonely tomb,
And throws across the desert gloom
A sweet decaying smell.

Come, press my lips, and lie with me
Beneath the lowly alder-tree;

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep,

And not a care shall dare intrude,
To break the marble solitude,
So peaceful and so deep.

1

And, hark! the wind-god, as he flies,
Moans hollow in the forest trees,
And sailing on the gusty breeze,
Mysterious music dies.

Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine,
It warns me to the lonely shrine,
The cold turf-altar of the dead;

My grave shall be in yon lone spot,
Where as I lie, by all forgot,

A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shee

THE DANCE OF THE CONSUMPTIVES.

DING-DONG! ding-dong!
Merry, merry go the bells.

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!
Ding-dong, ding-dong, calls us away.

Round the oak, and round the elm,
Merrily foot it o'er the ground!
The sentry ghost it stands aloof,
So merrily, merrily foot it round.
Ding-dong! ding-dong!

Merry, merry go the bells,
Swelling in the nightly gale,
The sentry ghost,

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;
See, see, the winding-sheet!

Our dance is done,

Our race is run,

And we must lie at the alder's feet!

Ding-dong! ding-dong!
Merry, merry go the bells,

Swinging o'er the weltering wave!
And we must seek

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.
Come, come, sister mine!

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!
I will smooth the way for thee,
Thou shalt furnish food for me.
Come, let us speed our way
Where the troops of spectres play.
To charnel-houses, churchyards drear,
Where Death sits with a horrible leer,
A lasting grin on a throne of bones,
And skim along the blue tombstones.
Come, let us speed away,

Lay our snares, and spread our tether!
I will smooth the way for thee,
Thou shalt furnish food for me:

And the grass shall wave
O'er many a grave

Where youth and beauty sleep together.
Consumption.

Come, let us speed our way!
Join our hands, and spread our tether!
I will furnish food for thee,

Thou shalt smooth the way for me;
And the grass shall wave

O'er many a grave

Where youth and beauty sleep together.
Melancholy.

Hist! sister, hist! who comes here?
Oh! I know her by that tear,
By that blue eye's languid glare,
By her skin and by her hair;
She is mine,

And she is thine,

Now the deadliest draught prepare.

Consumption.

In the dismal night-air dress'd,
I will creep into her breast!

Flush her cheek, and bleach her skin,
And feed on the vital fire within.
Lover, do not trust her eyes :
When they sparkle most, she dies!
Mother, do not trust her breath :
Comfort she will breathe in death!
Father, do not strive to save her:
She is mine, and I must have her!
The coffin must be her bridal bed,
The winding-sheet must wrap her head;
The whispering winds must o'er her sigh,
For soon in the grave the maid must lie;
The worm it will riot

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,
Where thou dost sit to guide the bark
Of lonely mariner.

The winds are whistling o'er the wolds,
The distant main is moaning low;
Come, let us sit and weave a song!
A melancholy song!

Sweet is the scented gale of morn,
And sweet the noontide's fervid beam,
But sweeter far the solemn calm

That marks thy mournful reign.
I've pass'd here many a lonely year,
And never human voice have heard;
I've pass'd here many a lonely year,
A solitary man.

And I have linger'd in the shade,
From sultry noon's hot beam; and I
Have knelt before my wicker door,
To sing my evening song.

And I have hail'd the gray morn high
On the blue mountain's misty brow,
And tried to tune my little reed
To hymns of harmony.

But never could I tune my reed,
At morn, or noon, or eve so sweet,
As when upon the ocean shore
I hail'd thy starbeam mild.

The day-spring brings not joy to me,
The moon it whispers not of peace!
But, oh! when darkness robes the heav'ns,
My woes are mix'd with joy.