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O Helen fair, beyond compare !
I'll make a garland of thy hair
Shall bind my heart for evernair

Until the day I die.


O that I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries ;
Out of my bed she bids me rise,

Says, 'Haste and come to me!'


O Helen fair ! O Helen chaste !
If I were with thee, I were blest,
Where thou lies low and takes thy rest

On fair Kirconnell lea.

I wish my grave were growing green,
A winding-sheet drawn ower my een,
And I in Helen's arms lying,

On fair Kirconnell lea.


I wish I were where Helen lies :
Night and day on me she cries;
And I am weary of the skies,
Since my Love died for me.






As I was walking all alane
I heard twa corbies making a mane;
The tane unto the t'other say,
“Where sall we gang and dine to-day ?'


'-In behint yon auld fail dyke,
I wot there lies a new-slain Knight;
And naebody kens that he lies there,
But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.


"His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
His lady's ta’en another mate,
So we may mak our dinner sweet.

“Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,
And I'll pick out his bonny blue een ;
Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair
We'll theek our nest when it grows bare.


‘Mony a one for him makes mane,
But nane sall ken where he is gane ;
O’er his white banes, when they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair.'






It was a dismal and a fearful night,-
Scarce could the Morn drive on th' unwilling light,
When sleep, death's image, left my troubled breast,

By something liker death possest.
My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow,

5 And on my soul hung the dull weight

Of some intolerable fate.
What bell was that? Ah me! Too much I know !


My sweet companion, and my gentle peer,
Why hast thou left me thus unkindly here,
Thy end for ever, and my life, to moan ?

O thou hast left me all alone!
Thy soul and body, when death's agony

Besieged around thy noble heart,

Did not with more reluctance part
Than I, my dearest friend, do part from thee.



Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say,
Have ye not seen us walking every day?
Was there a tree about which did not know

The love betwixt us two ?
Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade,

Or your sad branches thicker join,

And into darksome shades combine,
Dark as the grave wherein my friend is laid.

Large was his soul; as large a soul as e'er

25 Submitted to inform a body here ; High as the place 'twas shortly in Heaven to have,

But low and humble as his grave;
So high that all the virtues there did come

As to the chiefest seat

Conspicuous, and great ;
So low that for me too it made a room.



Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught,
As if for him knowledge had rather sought;
Nor did more learning ever crowded lie

In such a short mortality.
Whene'er the skilful youth discoursed or writ,

Still did the notions throng

About his eloquent tongue ;
Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit.


His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit,
Yet never did his God or friends forget.
And when deep talk and wisdom came in view,

Retired, and gave to them their due.
For the rich help of books he always ok,

Though his own searching mind before

Was so with notions written o'er,
As if wise Nature had made that her book.



With as much zeal, devotion, piety,
He always lived, as other saints do die.
Still with his soul severe account he kept,

Weeping all debts out ere he slept.
Then down in peace and innocence he lay,

Like the sun's laborious light,

Which still in water sets at night,
Unsullied with his journey of the day.

A. Cowley.





They are all gone into the world of light!

And I alone sit lingering here ; Their very memory is fair and bright,

And my sad thoughts doth clear :


It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,

Like stars upon some gloomy grove,
Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest,

After the sun's remove.


I see them walking in an air of glory,

Whose light doth trample on my days :
My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,

Mere glimmering and decays.

O holy Hope ! and high Humility,

High as the heavens above ! These are your walks, and you have shew'd them me, To kindle my cold love.


Dear, beauteous Death ! the jewel of the just,

Shining no where, but in the dark ; What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,

Could man outlook that mark !


He that hath found some fledged bird's nest, may know

At first sight, if the bird be flown;
But what fair well or grove he sings in now,

That is to him unknown.

25 And yet, as Angels in some brighter dreams

Call to the soul, when man doth sleep; So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, And into glory peep.

H. Vaughan.

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