181 7. J Original 



Not a thought of mine shall wrong him, 



Not a word impair his fame ; 

 All the virtues that belong him 



a»aU for me remain the same. 



Rather would I , than offend him, 



(Though it give my bosom pain) 

 To thy favour recommend him, 



, Worthy of thy love again. 



By those many hours of anguish 



Spent upon a sleepless bed ; 

 Doom'd by thee to hopeless languish, 



By the tears these eyes have shed:— 



By those auburn ringlets flowing. 



Graceful o'er thy polished brow : 

 By those ruby lips, bestowing 



Smiles on all save me below : — 



By those azure orbs of brightness, 

 Which with dazzling lustre glow : 



And that heart of thine of lightness, 

 Which has never tasted woe :— 



More, fair maid ! I cannot love thee, 



Than, forsooth, I love thee now; 

 Deeming nought on earth above thee. 



Half so dear to me as thou. 

 Yet, farewel, and oh ! may never 



Anguish mar thy bosom's peace j 

 Though I part with thee for ever. 



Still to love I ne'er can cease. 



M. W. Lilly. 



ELEGY 



TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN LOWE, 



Author of the puthctic and popular Ballad, 

 " Mary's Dream." 



[John Lowe was born at Kenmore, in Galloivay, in 

 the year 1750 ; he now lies buried near riedcricks- 

 burgli, Virginia, under the shade of two palm- 

 trees ; but iiot a stone is there on whii'h to write, 



' "Marywpep no more forme." Sen Crumtk's 

 Remains of Xithsdulc and Galloway Soiiif.] 



FAR distant retiring, the Muse folds her 

 pinions, 

 Attuning her lyre to the dictates of woe ; 

 Far distant from Scotia's enlightened do- 

 minions. 

 She mourns the sad fate of her farourite 

 Lowe. 

 The wild flow'rs are faded that deck'd the sage 

 mountain* 

 On which he delighted at morning to pore. 

 And sing to the Naiads that guarded the 

 fountain. 

 Who weep for thine absence, sweet bard of 

 Kenmore. 

 The banks of Rapp'hanock his cold clay's im- 

 muring. 

 And thither she wanders in sorrow to weep; 

 Though clouds of oblivion his worth are ob- 

 scuring. 

 The sparks of his genius O never shall sleep. 



• High on a rock his favorite arbour stood. 

 Near Ken's fair bank, amid a verdant wood; 

 Beneath its grateful shade at ease he lay, 

 And view'd the beauties of the rising day ; 

 Whilst with mellifluous lays the groves did 



ring. 

 He also join'd. Lowe's Murniiig. 



MoNiuLY Mag. No. iii^^. 



Poetry. 529 



Beneath the tall pine-tree majestic ascending. 

 Where youthful Vertumnus impianled his 

 store ; 

 Where blooms the wide climber, its claspers 

 extending. 

 She found the lone grave of the bard of 

 Kenmore, 

 Nowlowon thegrave-sward.dejectedlymL'sing, 

 The Genius of Fancy reclines with herlyre; 

 Far distant her wailing the mock-bird's dif- 

 fusing. 

 And Echo responsive the Dryads inspire ; 

 Who pause from their sporting, and pensively 

 ponder. 

 And sigh with the lephyrs that undulate o'er; 

 Who oft hear the feeling, as thither they 

 wander. 

 Breathe, " Peace to thine ashes, sweet bard 

 of Kenmore—" 



And those that are love-lorn, and strangers to 



gladness. 



By smooth flowingKen,or the murmuringDee; 



Who seek from their lute-strings a balm for 



their sadness. 



Shall find it in breathing a requiem for thee. 



And, Airds.as thy beauties are genially blooming. 



Amidst thy recesses shall Pity deplore. 

 That mute is her minstrel, with grief unas- 

 suming. 

 While Memory reveres him as bard of Ken- 

 more. A. Kyne. 



DAVID'S LAMENTATION for SAUL 

 AND JONATHAN. 



THE beam of the mighty is mantled ia 

 night. 

 His glory is set in the blaze of its light ; 

 His bow-string is shaftless, his ; pear is at rest. 

 His sabre unwaving, and sighless his breast. 



The beauty of Jacob is laid in the dust. 

 His armour is broken, and canker 'd with rust; 

 His eye is in darkness, a spot on its ray. 

 His vigour is death, and his bloom is decay. 



The hills of Gilboa shall summer no more, 

 Jehovah's anointed hath stain'd them with gore; 

 'i'heir trees shall be leafless, their verdure 



destroy'd. 

 Their altar a ruin, and Nature a void. 

 Philistia shall triumph — the pulse of the brave. 

 Whose thrill was destruction, is lost in the 



grave : 

 One spirit sublim'd them— adversity tried— 

 They existed in love, and in unity died. 



Weep, daughters of Jacob, for Saul and his son; 

 Attune your bright harps to the deeds they 



have done ; 

 The arm of the lion, the foot of the roe. 

 Weep, daughters of Jacob, be mighty in woe. 

 Oh, Jonathan I Jonathan ! ghostless art thou. 

 There's gore on thy visage, and dust on thy 



brow : 

 Yet the angel of Beauty is lingering by. 

 She revels in rapture, and flits to the sky» 

 Yes, thou art a corse, but thy spirit's above. 

 Diverging in glory, and beaming in love : 

 /'.nil Friendship is blasted, and saintless her 



shrine. 

 My soul has no kindred, and anguish is mine^ 

 iVuntage. J' ^^:~ ' 



S Y rROCEEDlNGSf 



