Gently to rest!

From the Greek of MELEAGER.
Translation of ANDREW LANG.

ON THE DEATH OF HER BROTHER, FRANCIS I.

'T is done! a father, mother, gone,
A sister, brother, torn away,
My hope is now in God alone,
Whom heaven and earth alike obey.
Above, beneath, to him is known,--
The world's wide compass is his own.

I love,--but in the world no more,
Nor in gay hall, or festal bower;
Not the fair forms I prized before,--
But him, all beauty, wisdom, power,
My Saviour, who has cast a chain
On sin and ill, and woe and pain!

I from my memory have effaced
All former joys, all kindred, friends;
All honors that my station graced
I hold but snares that fortune sends:
Hence! joys by Christ at distance cast,
That we may be his own at last!

From the French of MARGUERITE DE VALOIS, QUEEN OF NAVARRE.
Translation of LOUISA STUART COSTELLO.

TO MARY IN HEAVEN.

[Written in September, 1789, on the anniversary of the day on which he
heard of the death of his early love, Mary Campbell.]

Thou lingering star, with lessening ray,
That lov'st to greet the early morn,
Again thou usher'st in the day
My Mary from my soul was torn.
O Mary! dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget,--
Can I forget the hallowed grove,
Where by the winding Ayr we met
To live one day of parting love?
Eternity will not efface
Those records dear of transports past;
Thy image at our last embrace;
Ah! little thought we 't was our last!

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,
O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green;
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twined amorous round the raptured scene;
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sang love on every spray,--
Till soon, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaimed the speed of winged day.

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care!
Time but the impression stronger makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary! dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

ROBERT BURNS.

MINSTREL'S SONG.

O sing unto my roundelay!
O, drop the briny tear with me!
Dance no more at holiday;
Like a running river be.
_My love is dead,