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His fertile banks with herbage green,
CCLVI. JOHN PH. KEMBLE, 1757--1823.
TO THE MEMORY OF MR INCHBALD. What time the weak-eyed owl, on twilight wing Slow borne, her vesper screamed to eve, and roused
The lazy wing of bat,
With beetle's sullen hum, Friendship, and she, the maid of pensive mien, Pale Melancholy, point my sorrowing steps
To meditate the dead,
And give my friend a tear.
Upon the recent sod
That lightly clasps his heart:
Sweet as the harps of heaven,
Can move the tyrant Death. Hence, ye impure !—for hark! around his grave The Sisters chaste, the Sisters whom he loved,
Iu nine-fold cadence chaunt
Immortal harmony. 'Tis done-'tis done—the well-earned laurel spreads Its verdant foliage o'er his honoured clay :
Again the Muses sing
Thalia's was the deed.
Wħo woos the rosy norn,
With ruddy gold and purple, e'er shall see
Her weeping dews to kiss
CCLVII. WILL. SOTHEBY, 1757–1833.
2. GROTTO OF EGERIA.
Thou too, if e'er thy youthful ear
CCLVIII. ROBERT BURNS, 1759–1796,
1. LAMENT OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. Now Nature hangs her mantle green
On every blooming tree,
Out owre the grassy lea:
And glads the azure skies;
That fast in durance lies.
Aloft on dewy wing ;
Makes woodland echoes ring;
Singe drowsy day to rest :
Wi' care nor thrall opprest,
The primrose down the brae : The hawthorn's budding in the glen,
And milk-white is the slae : The meanest hind in fair Scotland
May rove their sweets amang; But I, the queen of a’ Scotland,
Maun lie in prison strang. I was the
o' bonnie France, Where happy I hae been, Fu’ lightly rose I in the morn.
As blythe lay down at e'en :