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And every day their sweets renew,
Till I, a fading flower, am dead.
O let the herbs I loved to rear

Give to my sense their perfumed breath!
Let them be placed about my bier,
And grace the gloomy house of death.
I'll have my grave beneath a hill,
Where only Lucy's self shall know,
Where runs the pure pellucid rill
Upon its gravelly bed below:
There violets on the borders blow,
And insects their soft light display,
Till, as the morning sunbeams glow,
The cold phosphoric fires decay.
That is the grave to Lucy shown;
The soil a pure and silver sand;
The green cold moss above it grown,
Unplucked of all but maiden hand.
In virgin earth, till then unturned,

There let my maiden form be laid;
Nor let my changed clay be spurned,

Nor for new guest that bed be made.
There will the lark, the lamb, in sport,
In air, on earth, securely play:
And Lucy to my grave resort,

As innocent, but not so gay.

I will not have the churchyard ground
With bones all black and ugly grown,
To press my shivering body round,
Or on my wasted limbs be thrown.
With ribs and skulls I will not sleep,
In clammy beds of cold blue clay,
Through which the ringed earth-worms creep,
And on the shrouded bosom prey.
I will not have the bell proclaim
When those sad marriage rites begin,
And boys, without regard or shame,
Press the vile mouldering masses in.

FROM "SIR EUSTACE GREY."

"" PILGRIM, burthen'd with thy sin, Come the way to Zion's gate,

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There, till Mercy let thee in,

Knock and weep and watch and wait.
Knock! He knows the sinner's cry!
Weep!-He loves the mourner's tears:
Watch!-for saving grace is nigh:
Wait,-till heavenly light appears.

Hark! it is the Bridegroom's voice:
"Welcome, pilgrim, to thy rest;
Now within the gate rejoice,

Safe and seal'd and bought and blest!
Safe-from all the lures of vice,
Seal'd-by signs the chosen know,
Bought by love and life the price,
Blest the mighty debt to owe.

"Holy Pilgrim ! what for thee
In a world like this remain?
From thy guarded breast shall flee
Fear and shame, and doubt and pain.
Fear-the hope of heaven shall fly,
Shame from glory's view retire,
Doubt in certain rapture die,
Pain-in endless bliss expire."

William Gifford.

{

Born 1756.

Died 1826.

BETTER known as a critic and prose writer than a poet, was born at Ashburton, in Devonshire, in 1756, of poor parentage. His parents died when he was very young, but Gifford picked up an education, and became an author in 1794. His "Baviad and Mæviad," poetical satires, introduced him into public notice; and as a political and literary writer he acted a prominent part during his after career. Of the higher poetry there are very few pieces by Gifford; but his poems show considerable simplicity and beauty. He died in London, on 31st December 1826.

THE GRAVE OF ANNA.

I WISH I was where Anna lies,
For I am sick of lingering here;
And every hour affection cries,

Go and partake her humble bier.

I wish I could! For when she died,
I lost my all; and life has proved
Since that sad hour a dreary void;
A waste unlovely and unloved.

But who, when I am turned to clay,
Shall duly to her grave repair,
And pluck the ragged moss away,

And weeds that have "no business there?"

And who with pious hand shall bring
The flowers she cherished, snowdrops cold,

And violets that unheeded spring,

To scatter o'er her hallowed mould?

And who, while memory loves to dwell
Upon her name for ever dear,
Shall feel his heart with passion swell,
And pour the bitter, bitter tear?

I did it; and would fate allow,

Should visit still, should still deplore-But health and strength have left me now, And I, alas! can weep no more.

Take then, sweet maid! this simple strain,
The last I offer at thy shrine;

Thy grave must then undecked remain,
And all thy memory fade with mine.

And can thy soft persuasive look,

Thy voice that might with music vie,

Thy air that every gazer took,
Thy matchless eloquence of eye;

Thy spirits frolicsome as good,

Thy courage by no ills dismayed,
Thy patience by no wrongs subdued,
Thy gay good-humour, can they fade?

Perhaps but sorrow dims my eye;
Cold turf, which I no more must view,
Dear name, which I no more must sigh,
A long, a last, a sad adieu!

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