PART THE FOURTH. (continued 2)

’Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it hath ceased to move: Yet, though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love! My days are in the yellow leaf; 5 The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone! The fire that on my bosom preys Is lone as some volcanic isle; 10 No torch is kindled at its blaze— A funeral pile. The hope, the fear, the jealous care, The exalted portion of the pain And power of love, I cannot share, 15 But wear the chain. But ’tis not thus—and ’tis not here— Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now, Where glory decks the hero’s bier, Or binds his brow. 20 The sword, the banner, and the field, Glory and Greece, around me see! The Spartan, borne upon his shield, Was not more free. Awake! (not Greece—she is awake!) 25 Awake, my spirit! Think through whom Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, And then strike home! Tread those reviving passions down, Unworthy manhood!—unto thee 30 Indifferent should the smile or frown Of beauty be. If thou regret’st thy youth, why live? The land of honourable death Is here:—up to the field, and give 35 Away thy breath! Seek out— less often sought than found— A soldier’s grave, for thee the best; Then look around, and choose thy ground, And take thy rest. 40 Lord Byron.

What voice did on my spirit fall, Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost? ‘’Tis better to have fought and lost, Than never to have fought at all.’ The tricolor—a trampled rag 5 Lies, dirt and dust; the lines I track By sentry boxes yellow-black, Lead up to no Italian flag. I see the Croat soldier stand Upon the grass of your redoubts; 10 The eagle with his black wings flouts The breadth and beauty of your land. Yet not in vain, although in vain, O men of Brescia, on the day Of loss past hope, I heard you say 15 Your welcome to the noble pain. You said, ‘Since so it is,—good bye Sweet life, high hope; but whatsoe’er May be, or must, no tongue shall dare To tell, “The Lombard feared to die!”’ 20 You said, (there shall be answer fit,) ‘And if our children must obey, They must; but thinking on this day, ’Twill less debase them to submit.’ You said, (oh, not in vain you said,) 25 ‘Haste, brothers, haste, while yet we may; The hours ebb fast of this one day, When blood may yet be nobly shed.’ Ah! not for idle hatred, not For honour, fame, nor self-applause, 30 But for the glory of the cause, You did, what will not be forgot. And though the stranger stand, ’tis true, By force and fortune’s right he stands; By fortune, which is in God’s hands, 35 And strength, which yet shall spring in you. This voice did on my spirit fall, Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost, ‘’Tis better to have fought and lost, Than never to have fought at all.’ 40 Arthur Hugh Clough.

I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile! Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee: I saw thee every day; and all the while Thy form was sleeping on a glassy sea. So pure the sky, so quiet was the air! 5 So like, so very like, was day to day! Whene’er I looked, thy image still was there; It trembled, but it never passed away. How perfect was the calm! It seemed no sleep, No mood, which season takes away, or brings: 10 I could have fancied that the mighty Deep Was even the gentlest of all gentle things. Ah! then, if mine had been the painter’s hand To express what then I saw; and add the gleam, The light that never was, on sea or land, 15 The consecration, and the poet’s dream,— I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile, Amid a world how different from this! Beside a sea that could not cease to smile; On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. 20 Thou should’st have seemed a treasure-house divine Of peaceful years, a chronicle of heaven; Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine The very sweetest had to thee been given. A picture had it been of lasting ease, 25 Elysian quiet, without toil or strife; No motion but the moving tide, a breeze, Or merely silent Nature’s breathing life. Such, in the fond illusion of my heart, Such picture would I at that time have made; 30 And seen the soul of truth in every part, A steadfast peace that might not be betrayed. So once it would have been,—’tis so no more; I have submitted to a new control: A power is gone, which nothing can restore; 35 A deep distress hath humanized my soul. Not for a moment could I now behold A smiling sea, and be what I have been: The feeling of my loss will ne’er be old; This, which I know, I speak with mind serene. 40 Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the friend, If he had lived, of him whom I deplore, This work of thine I blame not, but commend; This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. O ’tis a passionate work!—yet wise and well, 45 Well chosen is the spirit that is here; That hulk which labours in the deadly swell, This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear! And this huge Castle, standing here sublime, I love to see the look with which it braves, 50 —Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time— The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves. Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone, Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind! Such happiness, wherever it be known, 55 Is to be pitied; for ’tis surely blind. But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer, And frequent sights of what is to be borne! Such sights, or worse, as are before me here:— Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. 60 William Wordsworth.

Thou still unravished bride of quietness! Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 5 Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loath? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? 10 Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 15 Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! 20 Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearièd, For ever piping songs for ever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love! 25 For ever warm and still to be enjoyed, For ever panting and for ever young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 30 Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little town by river or sea-shore, 35 Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate, can e’er return. 40 O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! 45 When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st, ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty,’—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 50 John Keats.

The sun is warm, the sky is clear, The waves are dancing fast and bright, Blue isles and snowy mountains wear The purple noon’s transparent light: The breath of the moist air is light 5 Around its unexpanded buds; Like many a voice of one delight, The winds, the birds, the ocean-floods, The City’s voice itself is soft like solitude’s. I see the Deep’s untrampled floor 10 With green and purple sea-weeds strown; I see the waves upon the shore, Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown: I sit upon the sands alone; The lightning of the noon-tide ocean 15 Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measured motion— How sweet, did any heart now share in my emotion! Alas! I have nor hope nor health, Nor peace within nor calm around, 20 Nor that content surpassing wealth The sage in meditation found, And walked with inward glory crowned— Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure; Others I see whom these surround; 25 Smiling they live, and call life pleasure; To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. Yet now despair itself is mild, Even as the winds and waters are; I could lie down like a tired child, 30 And weep away the life of care Which I have borne, and yet must bear, Till death like sleep might steal on me, And I might feel in the warm air My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea 35 Breathe o’er my dying brain its last monotony. Some might lament that I were cold, As I, when this sweet day is gone, Which my lost heart, too soon grown old, Insults with this untimely moan; 40 They might lament—for I am one Whom men love not, and yet regret; Unlike this day, which, when the sun Shall on its stainless glory set, Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet. 45 Percy Bysshe Shelley.

Say not, the struggle nought availeth, The labour and the wounds are vain, The enemy faints not, nor faileth, And as things have been they remain. If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; 5 It may be, in yon smoke concealed, Your comrades chase e’en now the fliers, And, but for you, possess the field. For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, Seem here no painful inch to gain, 10 Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding in, the main. And not by eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light; In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, 15 But westward, look, the land is bright. Arthur Hugh Clough.

Oft in the stilly night Ere slumber’s chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me: The smiles, the tears 5 Of boyhood’s years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone, Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken! 10 Thus in the stilly light Ere slumber’s chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. When I remember all 15 The friends so linked together I’ve seen around me fall Like leaves in wintry weather, I feel like one Who treads alone 20 Some banquet-hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed! Thus in the stilly night 25 Ere slumber’s chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. Thomas Moore.

If thou wilt ease thine heart Of love, and all its smart— Then sleep, dear, sleep! And not a sorrow Hang any tear on your eyelashes; 5 Lie still and deep, Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes The rim o’ the sun to-morrow In Eastern sky. But wilt thou cure thine heart 10 Of love, and all its smart— Then die, dear, die! ’Tis deeper, sweeter, Than on a rose-bank to lie dreaming With folded eye; 15 And then alone, amid the beaming Of love’s stars, thou’lt meet her In Eastern sky. Thomas Lovell Beddoes.

Fresh clad from heaven in robes of white, A young probationer of light, Thou wert, my soul, an album bright, A spotless leaf; but thought, and care, And friend and foe, in foul and fair, 5 Have ‘written strange defeatures’ there; And Time with heaviest hand of all, Like that fierce writing on the wall, Hath stamped sad dates—he can’t recall. And error, gilding worst designs— 10 Like speckled snake that strays and shines— Betrays his path by crooked lines; And vice hath left his ugly blot; And good resolves, a moment hot, Fairly began—but finished not; 15 And fruitless, late remorse doth trace— Like Hebrew lore a backward pace— Her irrecoverable race. Disjointed numbers; sense unknit; Huge reams of folly; shreds of wit; 20 Compose the mingled mass of it. My scalded eyes no longer brook Upon this ink-blurred thing to look— Go, shut the leaves, and clasp the book. Charles Lamb.

October’s gold is dim—the forests rot, The weary rain falls ceaseless, while the day Is wrapt in damp. In mire of village-way The hedgerow leaves are stampt, and, all forgot, The broodless nest sits visible in the thorn. 5 Autumn, among her drooping marigolds, Weeps all her garnered fields and empty folds And dripping orchards, plundered and forlorn. The season is a dead one, and I die! No more, no more for me the spring shall make 10 A resurrection in the earth, and take The death from out her heart—O God, I die! The cold throat-mist creeps nearer, till I breathe Corruption. Drop, stark night, upon my death! David Gray.

Die down, O dismal day, and let me live; And come, blue deeps, magnificently strewn With coloured clouds—large, light, and fugitive— By upper winds through pompous motions blown. Now it is death in life—a vapour dense 5 Creeps round my window, till I cannot see The far snow-shining mountains, and the glens Shagging the mountain tops. O God! make free This barren shackled earth, so deadly cold— Breathe gently forth thy spring, till winter flies 10 In rude amazement, fearful and yet bold, While she performs her customed charities. I weigh the loaded hours till life is bare— O God, for one clear day, a snowdrop, and sweet air! David Gray.

O Winter, wilt thou never, never, go? O Summer, but I weary for thy coming, Longing once more to hear the Luggie flow, And frugal bees, laboriously humming. Now the east wind diseases the infirm, 5 And I must crouch in comers from rough weather; Sometimes a winter sunset is a charm— When the fired clouds, compacted, blaze together, And the large sun dips red behind the hills. I, from my window, can behold this pleasure; 10 And the eternal moon, what time she fills Her orb with argent, treading a soft measure, With queenly motions of a bridal mood, Through the white spaces of infinitude. David Gray.

When my mother died I was very young, And my father sold me while yet my tongue Could scarcely cry, ‘’Weep! ’weep! ’weep! ’weep!’ So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep. There’s little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head, 5 That curled like a lamb’s back, was shaved; so I said, ‘Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your head’s bare, You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.’ And so he was quiet, and that very night, As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight; 10 That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack, Were all of them locked up in coffins of black: And by came an angel, who had a bright key, And he opened the coffins, and set them all free; Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing they run, 15 And wash in a river, and shine in the sun. Then naked and white, all their bags left behind, They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind; And the angel told Tom, if he’d be a good boy, He’d have God for his Father, and never want joy. 20 And so Tom awoke, and we rose in the dark, And got with our bags and our brushes to work; Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm: So, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm. William Blake.

Art thou pale for weariness Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth, Wandering companionless, Among the stars that have a different birth,— And ever changing, like a joyless eye 5 That finds no object worth its constancy? Percy Bysshe Shelley.

If I had thought thou could’st have died, I might not weep for thee; But I forgot, when by thy side, That thou could’st mortal be. It never through my mind had past 5 That time would e’er be o’er, And I on thee should look my last, And thou should’st smile no more! And still upon that face I look, And think ’twill smile again; 10 And still the thought I will not brook That I must look in vain. But when I speak thou dost not say, What thou ne’er left’st unsaid; And now I feel, as well I may, 15 Sweet Mary, thou art dead! If thou would’st stay, e’en as thou art, All cold, and all serene— I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been! 20 While e’en thy chill, bleak corse I have, Thou seemest still mine own; But there—I lay thee in thy grave, And I am now alone! I do not think, where’er thou art, 25 Thou hast forgotten me; And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart, In thinking still of thee: Yet there was round thee such a dawn Of light ne’er seen before, 30 As fancy never could have drawn, And never can restore! Charles Wolfe.

Can I see another’s woe, And not be in sorrow too? Can I see another’s grief, And not seek for kind relief? Can I see a falling tear, 5 And not feel my sorrow’s share? Can a father see his child Weep, nor be with sorrow filled? Can a mother sit and hear An infant groan, an infant fear? 10 No, no! never can it be! Never, never can it be! And can He, who smiles on all, Hear the wren, with sorrows small, Hear the small bird’s grief and care, 15 Hear the woes that infants bear? And not sit beside the nest, Pouring pity in their breast? And not sit the cradle near, Weeping tear on infant’s tear? 20 And not sit both night and day, Wiping all our tears away? Oh, no! never can it be! Never, never can it be! He doth give his joy to all: 25 He becomes an infant small, He becomes a man of woe, He doth feel the sorrow too. Think not thou canst sigh a sigh, And thy Maker is not by: 30 Think not thou canst weep a tear, And thy Maker is not near. Oh! He gives to us his joy, That our griefs He may destroy: Till our grief is fled and gone 35 He doth sit by us and moan. William Blake.

O Rose, who dares to name thee? No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet, But pale and hard and dry as stubble wheat,— Kept seven years in a drawer, thy titles shame thee. The breeze that used to blow thee 5 Between the hedgerow thorns, and take away An odour up the lane to last all day,— If breathing now, unsweetened would forgo thee. The sun that used to smite thee, And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn, 10 Till beam appeared to bloom, and flower to burn,— If shining now, with not a hue would light thee. The dew that used to wet thee, And, white first, grow incarnadined because It lay upon thee where the crimson was,— 15 If dropping now, would darken where it met thee. The fly that ’lit upon thee, To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet Along thy leafs pure edges after heat,— If ’lighting now, would coldly overrun thee. 20 The bee that once did suck thee, And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive, And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive,— If passing now, would blindly overlook thee. The heart doth recognize thee, 25 Alone, alone! the heart doth smell thee sweet, Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete, Perceiving all those changes that disguise thee. Yes, and the heart doth owe thee More love, dead rose, than to’ any roses bold 30 Which Julia wears at dances smiling cold:— Lie still upon this heart which breaks below thee! Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Although I enter not, Yet round about the spot Ofttimes I hover; And near the sacred gate With longing eyes I wait, 5 Expectant of her. The Minster bell tolls out Above the city’s rout, And noise and humming: They’ve hushed the Minster bell: 10 The organ ’gins to swell: She’s coming, she’s coming! My lady comes at last, Timid, and stepping fast, And hastening hither, 15 With modest eyes downcast: She comes—she’s here—she’s past— May Heaven go with her! Kneel, undisturbed, fair Saint! Pour out your praise or plaint 20 Meekly and duly; I will not enter there, To sully your pure prayer With thoughts unruly. But suffer me to pace 25 Round the forbidden place, Lingering a minute, Like outcast spirits who wait And see through Heaven’s gate Angels within it. 30 William Makepeace Thackeray.

I saw where in the shroud did lurk A curious frame of Nature’s work; A floweret crushèd in the bud, A nameless piece of Babyhood, Was in her cradle-coffin lying; 5 Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying: So soon to’ exchange the imprisoning womb For darker closets of the tomb! She did but ope an eye, and put A clear beam forth, then straight up shut 10 For the long dark: ne’er more to see Through glasses of mortality. Riddle of destiny, who can show, What thy short visit meant, or know What thy errand here below? 15 Shall we say, that Nature blind Checked her hand, and changed her mind Just when she had exactly wrought A finished, pattern without fault? Could she flag, or could she tire, 20 Or lacked she the Promethean fire (With her nine moons’ long workings sickened) That should thy little limbs have quickened? Limbs so firm, they seemed to’ assure Life of health, and days mature: 25 Woman’s self in miniature! Limbs so fair, they might supply (Themselves now but cold imagery) The sculptor to make Beauty by. Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry 30 That babe or mother, one must die; So in mercy left the stock, And cut the branch; to save the shock Of young years widowed, and the pain When Single State comes back again 35 To the lone man who, reft of wife, Thenceforward drags a maimèd life? The economy of Heaven is dark, And wisest clerks have missed the mark Why human buds, like this, should fall 40 More brief than fly ephemeral That has his day; while shrivelled crones Stiffen with age to stocks and stones; And crabbèd use the conscience sears In sinners of an hundred years. 45 —Mother’s prattle, mother’s kiss, Baby fond, thou ne’er wilt miss: Rites, which custom does impose, Silver bells, and baby clothes; Coral redder than those lips 50 Which pale death did late eclipse; Music framed for infant’s glee, Whistle never tuned for thee; Though thou want’st not, thou shalt have them, Loving hearts were they which gave them. 55 Let not one be missing; nurse, See them laid upon the hearse Of infant slain by doom perverse. Why should kings and nobles have Pictured trophies to their grave, 60 And we, churls, to thee deny Thy pretty toys with thee to lie— A more harmless vanity? Charles Lamb.

Child of a day, thou knowest not The tears that overflow thine urn, The gushing eyes that read thy lot; Nor, if thou knewest, could’st return! And why the wish! the pure and blest 5 Watch like thy mother o’er thy sleep: O peaceful night! O envied rest! Thou wilt not ever see her weep. Walter Savage Landor.

Sweet Maiden, for so calm a life Too bitter seemed thine end; But thou hadst won thee, ere that strife, A more than earthly Friend. We miss thee in thy place at school, 5 And on thine homeward way, Where violets by the reedy pool Peep out so shyly gay: Where thou, a true and gentle guide, Wouldst lead thy little band, 10 With all an elder sister’s pride, And rule with eye and hand. And if we miss, oh, who may speak What thoughts are hovering round The pallet where thy fresh young cheek 15 Its evening slumber found? How many a tearful longing look In silence seeks thee yet, Where in its own familiar nook Thy fireside chair is set? 20 And oft when little voices dim Are feeling for the note In chanted prayer, or psalm, or hymn, And wavering wildly float, Comes gushing o’er a sudden thought 25 Of her who led the strain, How oft such music home she brought— But ne’er shall bring again. O say not so! the springtide air Is fraught with whisperings sweet; 30 Who knows but heavenly carols there With ours may duly meet? Who knows how near, each holy hour, The pure and child-like dead May linger, where in shrine or bower 35 The mourner’s prayer is said? And He who willed thy tender frame (O stern yet sweet decree!) Should wear the martyr’s robe of flame, He hath prepared for thee 40 A garland in that region bright Where infant spirits reign, Tinged faintly with such golden light As crowns his martyr train. Nay doubt it not: his tokens sure 45 Were round her death-bed shown: The wasting pain might not endure, ’Twas calm ere life had flown, Even as we read of Saints of yore: Her heart and voice were free 50 To crave one quiet slumber more Upon her mother’s knee. John Keble.

Oh, lead me not in Pleasure’s train, With faltering step and faded brow; She such a votary would disdain, And such a homage disavow. But art thou sure the goddess leads 5 Yon motley group that onward press? Some gaudy phantom-shape precedes, Arrayed in Pleasure’s borrowed dress. When last I saw her smile serene, And spread her soft enchantments wide, 10 My lovely child adorned the scene, And sported by the flowing tide. The fairest shells for me to seek, Intent the little wanderer strayed; The rose that blossomed on his cheek 15 Still deepening as the breezes played. Exulting in his form and face, Through the bright veil that beauty wove, How did my heart delight to trace A soul—all harmony and love! 20 Fair as the dreams by fancy given, A model of unearthly grace; Whene’er he raised his eyes to heaven, He seemed to seek his native place. More lovely than the morning ray, 25 His brilliant form of life and light Through strange gradations of decay In sad succession shocked my sight. And since that agonizing hour, That sowed the seed of mourning years, 30 Beauty has lost its cheering power, I see it through a mother’s tears. Soon was my dream of bliss o’ercast, And all the dear illusion o’er; A few dark days of terror past, 35 And joy and Frederick bloom no more. Melesina Trench.

We watched her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro. So silently we seemed to speak, 5 So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers, To eke her living out. Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied; 10 We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died. For when the morn came dim and sad, And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed—she had 15 Another morn than ours. Thomas Hood.

Methinks it is good to be here; If Thou wilt, let us build—but for whom? Nor Elias nor Moses appear, But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom, The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb. 5 Shall we build to Ambition? oh, no! Affrighted, he shrinketh away; For see! they would pin him below, In a small narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay, To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey. 10 To Beauty? ah, no!—she forgets The charms which she wielded before— Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which but yesterday fools could adore, For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore. 15 Shall we build to the purple of Pride— The trappings which dizen the proud? Alas! they are all laid aside; And here’s neither dress nor adornment allowed, But the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the shroud. 20 To Riches? alas! ’tis in vain; Who hid, in their turns have been hid: The treasures are squandered again; And here in the grave are all metals forbid, But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin-lid. 25 To the pleasures which Mirth can afford— The revel, the laugh, and the jeer? Ah! here is a plentiful board! But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, And none but the worm is a reveller here. 30 Shall we build to Affection and Love? Ah, no! they have withered and died, Or fled with the spirit above; Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side, Yet none have saluted, and none have replied. 35 Unto Sorrow?—The dead cannot grieve; Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear, Which compassion itself could relieve! Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fear— Peace, peace is the watchword, the only one here! 40 Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? Ah, no! for his empire is known, And here there are trophies enow! Beneath—the cold dead, and around—the dark stone, Are the signs of a Sceptre that none may disown! 45 The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise; The second to Faith, which ensures it fulfilled; And the third to the Lamb of the great Sacrifice, Who bequeathed us them both when He rose to the skies. 50 Herbert Knowles.

Unfathomable Sea! whose waves are years, Ocean of Time, whose waters of deep woe Are brackish with the salt of human tears! Thou shoreless flood, which in thy ebb and flow Claspest the limits of mortality! 5 And sick of prey, yet howling on for more, Vomitest thy wrecks on its inhospitable shore; Treacherous in calm, and terrible in storm, Who shall put forth on thee, Unfathomable Sea? 10 Percy Bysshe Shelley.

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers are round her sighing; But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying. She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, 5 Every note which he loved awaking;— Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains, How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking. He had lived for his love, for his country he died, They were all that to life had entwined him; 10 Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his Love stay behind him. Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, When they promise a glorious morrow; 14 They’ll shine o’er her sleep, like a smile from the West, From her own loved island of sorrow. Thomas Moore.

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, The sun himself must die, Before this mortal shall assume Its immortality! I saw a vision in my sleep, 5 That gave my spirit strength to sweep Adown the gulf of Time! I saw the last of human mould, That shall Creation’s death behold, As Adam saw her prime! 10 The sun’s eye had a sickly glare, The earth with age was wan, The skeletons of nations were Around that lonely man! Some had expired in fight,—the brands 15 Still rusted in their bony hands; In plague and famine some! Earth’s cities had no sound nor tread; And ships were drifting with the dead To shores where all was dumb! 20 Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, With dauntless words and high, That shook the sere leaves from the wood, As if a storm passed by— Saying, We’ are twins in death, proud Sun, 25 Thy face is cold, thy race is run, ’Tis mercy bids thee go; For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears, That shall no longer flow. 30 What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill; And arts that made fire, flood, and earth, The vassals of his will;— Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, 35 Thou dim discrownèd king of day; For all those trophied arts And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Healed not a passion or a pang Entailed on human hearts. 40 Go, let oblivion’s curtain fall Upon the stage of men, Nor with thy rising beams recall Life’s tragedy again. Its piteous pageants bring not back, 45 Nor waken flesh upon the rack Of pain anew to writhe; Stretched in disease’s shapes abhorred, Or mown in battle by the sword, Like grass beneath the scythe. 50 Even I am weary in yon skies To watch thy fading fire; Test of all sumless agonies, Behold not me expire. My lips that speak thy dirge of death— 55 Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath To see thou shalt not boast. The eclipse of nature spreads my pall,— The majesty of darkness shall Receive my parting ghost! 60 This spirit shall return to Him Who gave its heavenly spark; Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim, When thou thyself art dark! No! it shall live again, and shine, 65 In bliss unknown to beams of thine, By Him recalled to breath, Who captive led captivity, Who robbed the grave of victory, And took the sting from death! 70 Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up On nature’s awful waste, To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief that man shall taste— Go, tell the night that hides thy face, 75 Thou saw’st the last of Adam’s race, On earth’s sepulchral clod, The darkening universe defy To quench his immortality, Or shake his trust in God! 80 Thomas Campbell.

Ah! what avails the sceptred race, Ah! what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, all were thine. Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes 5 May weep, but never see, A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee. Walter Savage Landor.

Gone were but the winter cold, And gone were but the snow, I could sleep in the wild woods Where primroses blow. Cold’s the snow at my head, 5 And cold at my feet; And the finger of death’s at my een, Closing them to sleep. Let none tell my father, Or my mother so dear,— 10 I’ll meet them both in heaven At the spring of the year. Allan Cunningham.

I thought to meet no more, so dreary seemed Death’s interposing veil, and thou so pure, Thy place in Paradise Beyond where I could soar; Friend of this worthless heart! but happier thoughts 5 Spring like unbidden violets from the sod, Where patiently thou tak’st Thy sweet and sure repose. The shadows fall more soothing, the soft air Is full of cheering whispers like thine own; 10 While Memory, by thy grave, Lives o’er thy funeral day; The deep knell dying down; the mourners’ pause, Waiting their Saviour’s welcome at the gate; Sure with the words of Heaven 15 Thy spirit met us there, And sought with us along the accustomed way The hallowed porch, and entering in beheld The pageant of sad joy, So dear to Faith and Hope. 20 Oh, hadst thou brought a strain from Paradise To cheer us, happy soul! thou hadst not touched The sacred springs of grief More tenderly and true, Than those deep-warbled anthems, high and low, 25 Low as the grave, high as the eternal Throne, Guiding through light and gloom Our mourning fancies wild, Till gently, like soft golden clouds at eve Around the western twilight, all subside 30 Into a placid Faith, That e’en with beaming eye Counts thy sad honours, coffin, bier, and pall: So many relics of a frail love lost, So many tokens dear 35 Of endless love begun. Listen! it is no dream: the Apostle’s trump Gives earnest of the Archangel’s: calmly now, Our hearts yet beating high To that victorious lay, 40 Most like a warrior’s, to the martial dirge Of a true comrade, in the grave we trust Our treasure for a while; And if a tear steal down, If human anguish o’er the shaded brow 45 Pass shuddering, when the handful of pure earth Touches the coffin-lid; If at our brother’s name Once and again the thought, ‘For ever gone,’ Comes o’er us like a cloud; yet, gentle spright, 50 Thou turnest not away, Thou know’st us calm at heart. One look, and we have seen our last of thee, Till we too sleep, and our long sleep be o’er: O cleanse us, ere we view 55 That countenance pure again, Thou, who canst change the heart and raise the dead! As Thou art by to soothe our parting hour, Be ready when we meet With thy dear pardoning words. 60 John Keble.

Of all the thoughts of God that are Borne inward into souls afar, Along the Psalmist’s music deep, Now tell me if that any is For gift or grace surpassing this— 5 ‘He giveth his belovèd, sleep’? What would we give to our beloved? The hero’s heart to be unmoved, The poet’s star-tuned harp to sweep, The patriot’s voice to teach and rouse, 10 The monarch’s crown to light the brows?— He giveth his belovèd, sleep. What do we give to our beloved? A little faith all undisproved, A little dust to overweep, 15 And bitter memories to make The whole earth blasted for our sake: He giveth his belovèd, sleep. ‘Sleep soft, beloved!’ we sometimes say, Who have no tune to charm away 20 Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep: But never doleful dream again Shall break the happy slumber, when He giveth his belovèd, sleep. O earth, so full of dreary noises! 25 O men, with wailing in your voices! O delvèd gold, the wailers heap! O strife, O curse, that o’er it fall! God strikes a silence through you all, And giveth his belovèd, sleep. 30 His dews drop mutely on the hill, His cloud above it saileth still, Though on its slope men sow and reap: More softly than the dew is shed, Or cloud is floated overhead, 35 He giveth his belovèd, sleep. Ay, men may wonder while they scan A living, thinking, feeling man, Confirmed in such a rest to keep; But angels say, and through the word 40 I think their happy smile is heard,— ‘He giveth his belovèd, sleep.’ For me, my heart that erst did go Most like a tired child at a show, That sees through tears the mummers leap, 45 Would now its wearied vision close, Would childlike on his love repose, Who giveth his belovèd, sleep. And friends, dear friends, when it shall be That this low breath is gone from me, 50 And round my bier ye come to weep, Let one, most loving of you all, Say, ‘Not a tear must o’er her fall! ‘He giveth his belovèd, sleep.’ Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Fare well man’s dark last journey o’er the deep, Thou sire of sires! whose bow in strength hath stood These threescore years and ten, that thou hast wooed Men’s souls to heaven. In Jesus fall’n asleep, Around thy couch three generations weep, 5 Reared on thy knees with wisdom’s heavenly food, And by thy counsels taught to choose the good; Who in thy footsteps press up Zion’s steep, To reach that temple which but now did ope And let their father in. O’er his bier wake 10 No doleful strain, but high the note of hope And praise uplift to God, who did him make A faithful shepherd, of his Church a prop; And of his seed did faithful shepherds take. Edward Irving.

A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun; A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow; Long had I watched the glory moving on, O’er the still radiance of the lake below; Tranquil its spirit seemed and floated slow; 5 Even in its very motion there was rest; While every breath of eve that chanced to blow Wafted the traveller to the beauteous West. Emblem, methought, of the departed soul! To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given; 10 And by the breath of mercy made to roll Right onward to the golden gates of heaven; Where to the eye of Faith it peaceful lies, And tells to man his glorious destinies. John Wilson.

Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew Thee from report divine, and heard thy name, Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, This glorious canopy of light and blue? Yet ’neath a curtain of translucent dew, 5 Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, Hesperus with the host of heaven came, And lo! creation widened in man’s view. Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed Within thy beams, O sun! or who could find, 10 Whilst fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed, That to such countless orbs thou mad’st us blind! Why do we then shun death with anxious strife? If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life? Blanco White.