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,5Have ‘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—10Like 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;15And 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;20Compose the mingled mass of it.My scalded eyes no longer brookUpon this ink-blurred thing to look—Go, shut the leaves, and clasp the book.Charles Lamb.
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,5Have ‘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—10Like 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;15And 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;20Compose the mingled mass of it.My scalded eyes no longer brookUpon this ink-blurred thing to look—Go, shut the leaves, and clasp the book.Charles Lamb.
Fresh clad from heaven in robes of white,A young probationer of light,Thou wert, my soul, an album bright,
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,5Have ‘written strange defeatures’ there;
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 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—10Like speckled snake that strays and shines—Betrays his path by crooked lines;
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 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.
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;20Compose the mingled mass of it.
Disjointed numbers; sense unknit;
Huge reams of folly; shreds of wit;20
Compose the mingled mass of it.
My scalded eyes no longer brookUpon this ink-blurred thing to look—Go, shut the leaves, and clasp the book.Charles Lamb.
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 dayIs wrapt in damp. In mire of village-wayThe hedgerow leaves are stampt, and, all forgot,The broodless nest sits visible in the thorn.5Autumn, among her drooping marigolds,Weeps all her garnered fields and empty foldsAnd dripping orchards, plundered and forlorn.The season is a dead one, and I die!No more, no more for me the spring shall make10A resurrection in the earth, and takeThe death from out her heart—O God, I die!The cold throat-mist creeps nearer, till I breatheCorruption. Drop, stark night, upon my death!David Gray.
October’s gold is dim—the forests rot,The weary rain falls ceaseless, while the dayIs wrapt in damp. In mire of village-wayThe hedgerow leaves are stampt, and, all forgot,The broodless nest sits visible in the thorn.5Autumn, among her drooping marigolds,Weeps all her garnered fields and empty foldsAnd dripping orchards, plundered and forlorn.The season is a dead one, and I die!No more, no more for me the spring shall make10A resurrection in the earth, and takeThe death from out her heart—O God, I die!The cold throat-mist creeps nearer, till I breatheCorruption. Drop, stark night, upon my death!David Gray.
October’s gold is dim—the forests rot,The weary rain falls ceaseless, while the dayIs wrapt in damp. In mire of village-wayThe hedgerow leaves are stampt, and, all forgot,The broodless nest sits visible in the thorn.5Autumn, among her drooping marigolds,Weeps all her garnered fields and empty foldsAnd dripping orchards, plundered and forlorn.The season is a dead one, and I die!No more, no more for me the spring shall make10A resurrection in the earth, and takeThe death from out her heart—O God, I die!The cold throat-mist creeps nearer, till I breatheCorruption. Drop, stark night, upon my death!David Gray.
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 make10
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 strewnWith coloured clouds—large, light, and fugitive—By upper winds through pompous motions blown.Now it is death in life—a vapour dense5Creeps round my window, till I cannot seeThe far snow-shining mountains, and the glensShagging the mountain tops. O God! make freeThis barren shackled earth, so deadly cold—Breathe gently forth thy spring, till winter flies10In 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.
Die down, O dismal day, and let me live;And come, blue deeps, magnificently strewnWith coloured clouds—large, light, and fugitive—By upper winds through pompous motions blown.Now it is death in life—a vapour dense5Creeps round my window, till I cannot seeThe far snow-shining mountains, and the glensShagging the mountain tops. O God! make freeThis barren shackled earth, so deadly cold—Breathe gently forth thy spring, till winter flies10In 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.
Die down, O dismal day, and let me live;And come, blue deeps, magnificently strewnWith coloured clouds—large, light, and fugitive—By upper winds through pompous motions blown.Now it is death in life—a vapour dense5Creeps round my window, till I cannot seeThe far snow-shining mountains, and the glensShagging the mountain tops. O God! make freeThis barren shackled earth, so deadly cold—Breathe gently forth thy spring, till winter flies10In 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.
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 dense5
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 flies10
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,5And 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;10And the eternal moon, what time she fillsHer orb with argent, treading a soft measure,With queenly motions of a bridal mood,Through the white spaces of infinitude.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,5And 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;10And the eternal moon, what time she fillsHer orb with argent, treading a soft measure,With queenly motions of a bridal mood,Through the white spaces of infinitude.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,5And 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;10And the eternal moon, what time she fillsHer orb with argent, treading a soft measure,With queenly motions of a bridal mood,Through the white spaces of infinitude.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 tongueCould 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,5That 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;10That 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,15And 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.20And 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.
When my mother died I was very young,And my father sold me while yet my tongueCould 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,5That 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;10That 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,15And 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.20And 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.
When my mother died I was very young,And my father sold me while yet my tongueCould scarcely cry, ‘’Weep! ’weep! ’weep! ’weep!’So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.
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,5That 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.’
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;10That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,Were all of them locked up in coffins of black:
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,15And wash in a river, and shine in the sun.
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
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.
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 wearinessOf climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth,Wandering companionless,Among the stars that have a different birth,—And ever changing, like a joyless eye5That finds no object worth its constancy?Percy Bysshe Shelley.
Art thou pale for wearinessOf climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth,Wandering companionless,Among the stars that have a different birth,—And ever changing, like a joyless eye5That finds no object worth its constancy?Percy Bysshe Shelley.
Art thou pale for wearinessOf climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth,Wandering companionless,Among the stars that have a different birth,—And ever changing, like a joyless eye5That finds no object worth its constancy?Percy Bysshe Shelley.
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 eye5
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 past5That 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;10And still the thought I will not brookThat 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,15Sweet 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!20While 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,25Thou hast forgotten me;And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,In thinking still of thee:Yet there was round thee such a dawnOf light ne’er seen before,30As fancy never could have drawn,And never can restore!Charles Wolfe.
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 past5That 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;10And still the thought I will not brookThat 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,15Sweet 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!20While 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,25Thou hast forgotten me;And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,In thinking still of thee:Yet there was round thee such a dawnOf light ne’er seen before,30As fancy never could have drawn,And never can restore!Charles Wolfe.
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 past5That time would e’er be o’er,And I on thee should look my last,And thou should’st smile no more!
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 past5
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;10And still the thought I will not brookThat 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,15Sweet Mary, thou art dead!
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!20While 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!
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,25Thou hast forgotten me;And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,In thinking still of thee:Yet there was round thee such a dawnOf light ne’er seen before,30As fancy never could have drawn,And never can restore!Charles Wolfe.
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,5And not feel my sorrow’s share?Can a father see his childWeep, nor be with sorrow filled?Can a mother sit and hearAn infant groan, an infant fear?10No, 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,15Hear 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?20And 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:25He 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:30Think 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 gone35He doth sit by us and moan.William Blake.
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,5And not feel my sorrow’s share?Can a father see his childWeep, nor be with sorrow filled?Can a mother sit and hearAn infant groan, an infant fear?10No, 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,15Hear 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?20And 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:25He 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:30Think 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 gone35He doth sit by us and moan.William Blake.
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 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,5And not feel my sorrow’s share?Can a father see his childWeep, nor be with sorrow filled?
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 hearAn infant groan, an infant fear?10No, no! never can it be!Never, never can it be!
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,15Hear the woes that infants bear?
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 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!
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:25He becomes an infant small,He becomes a man of woe,He doth feel the sorrow too.
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:30Think not thou canst weep a tear,And thy Maker is not near.
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 gone35He doth sit by us and moan.William Blake.
Oh! He gives to us his joy,
That our griefs He may destroy:
Till our grief is fled and gone35
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 thee5Between the hedgerow thorns, and take awayAn 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,10Till 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 becauseIt lay upon thee where the crimson was,—15If dropping now, would darken where it met thee.The fly that ’lit upon thee,To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feetAlong thy leafs pure edges after heat,—If ’lighting now, would coldly overrun thee.20The 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,25Alone, 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 theeMore love, dead rose, than to’ any roses bold30Which Julia wears at dances smiling cold:—Lie still upon this heart which breaks below thee!Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
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 thee5Between the hedgerow thorns, and take awayAn 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,10Till 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 becauseIt lay upon thee where the crimson was,—15If dropping now, would darken where it met thee.The fly that ’lit upon thee,To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feetAlong thy leafs pure edges after heat,—If ’lighting now, would coldly overrun thee.20The 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,25Alone, 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 theeMore love, dead rose, than to’ any roses bold30Which Julia wears at dances smiling cold:—Lie still upon this heart which breaks below thee!Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
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.
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 thee5Between the hedgerow thorns, and take awayAn odour up the lane to last all day,—If breathing now, unsweetened would forgo thee.
The breeze that used to blow thee5
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,10Till beam appeared to bloom, and flower to burn,—If shining now, with not a hue would light 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 becauseIt lay upon thee where the crimson was,—15If dropping now, would darken where it met 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 feetAlong thy leafs pure edges after heat,—If ’lighting now, would coldly overrun thee.20
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 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,25Alone, alone! the heart doth smell thee sweet,Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete,Perceiving all those changes that disguise 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 theeMore love, dead rose, than to’ any roses bold30Which Julia wears at dances smiling cold:—Lie still upon this heart which breaks below thee!Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
Yes, and the heart doth owe thee
More love, dead rose, than to’ any roses bold30
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 spotOfttimes I hover;And near the sacred gateWith longing eyes I wait,5Expectant of her.The Minster bell tolls outAbove the city’s rout,And noise and humming:They’ve hushed the Minster bell:10The organ ’gins to swell:She’s coming, she’s coming!My lady comes at last,Timid, and stepping fast,And hastening hither,15With 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 plaint20Meekly and duly;I will not enter there,To sully your pure prayerWith thoughts unruly.But suffer me to pace25Round the forbidden place,Lingering a minute,Like outcast spirits who waitAnd see through Heaven’s gateAngels within it.30William Makepeace Thackeray.
Although I enter not,Yet round about the spotOfttimes I hover;And near the sacred gateWith longing eyes I wait,5Expectant of her.The Minster bell tolls outAbove the city’s rout,And noise and humming:They’ve hushed the Minster bell:10The organ ’gins to swell:She’s coming, she’s coming!My lady comes at last,Timid, and stepping fast,And hastening hither,15With 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 plaint20Meekly and duly;I will not enter there,To sully your pure prayerWith thoughts unruly.But suffer me to pace25Round the forbidden place,Lingering a minute,Like outcast spirits who waitAnd see through Heaven’s gateAngels within it.30William Makepeace Thackeray.
Although I enter not,Yet round about the spotOfttimes I hover;And near the sacred gateWith longing eyes I wait,5Expectant of her.
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 outAbove the city’s rout,And noise and humming:They’ve hushed the Minster bell:10The organ ’gins to swell:She’s coming, she’s coming!
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,15With modest eyes downcast:She comes—she’s here—she’s past—May Heaven go with her!
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 plaint20Meekly and duly;I will not enter there,To sully your pure prayerWith thoughts unruly.
Kneel, undisturbed, fair Saint!
Pour out your praise or plaint20
Meekly and duly;
I will not enter there,
To sully your pure prayer
With thoughts unruly.
But suffer me to pace25Round the forbidden place,Lingering a minute,Like outcast spirits who waitAnd see through Heaven’s gateAngels within it.30William Makepeace Thackeray.
But suffer me to pace25
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 lurkA curious frame of Nature’s work;A floweret crushèd in the bud,A nameless piece of Babyhood,Was in her cradle-coffin lying;5Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying:So soon to’ exchange the imprisoning wombFor darker closets of the tomb!She did but ope an eye, and putA clear beam forth, then straight up shut10For the long dark: ne’er more to seeThrough glasses of mortality.Riddle of destiny, who can show,What thy short visit meant, or knowWhat thy errand here below?15Shall we say, that Nature blindChecked her hand, and changed her mindJust when she had exactly wroughtA finished, pattern without fault?Could she flag, or could she tire,20Or 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’ assureLife of health, and days mature:25Woman’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 descry30That babe or mother, one must die;So in mercy left the stock,And cut the branch; to save the shockOf young years widowed, and the painWhen Single State comes back again35To the lone man who, reft of wife,Thenceforward drags a maimèd life?The economy of Heaven is dark,And wisest clerks have missed the markWhy human buds, like this, should fall40More brief than fly ephemeralThat has his day; while shrivelled cronesStiffen with age to stocks and stones;And crabbèd use the conscience searsIn 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 lips50Which 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.55Let not one be missing; nurse,See them laid upon the hearseOf infant slain by doom perverse.Why should kings and nobles havePictured trophies to their grave,60And we, churls, to thee denyThy pretty toys with thee to lie—A more harmless vanity?Charles Lamb.
I saw where in the shroud did lurkA curious frame of Nature’s work;A floweret crushèd in the bud,A nameless piece of Babyhood,Was in her cradle-coffin lying;5Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying:So soon to’ exchange the imprisoning wombFor darker closets of the tomb!She did but ope an eye, and putA clear beam forth, then straight up shut10For the long dark: ne’er more to seeThrough glasses of mortality.Riddle of destiny, who can show,What thy short visit meant, or knowWhat thy errand here below?15Shall we say, that Nature blindChecked her hand, and changed her mindJust when she had exactly wroughtA finished, pattern without fault?Could she flag, or could she tire,20Or 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’ assureLife of health, and days mature:25Woman’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 descry30That babe or mother, one must die;So in mercy left the stock,And cut the branch; to save the shockOf young years widowed, and the painWhen Single State comes back again35To the lone man who, reft of wife,Thenceforward drags a maimèd life?The economy of Heaven is dark,And wisest clerks have missed the markWhy human buds, like this, should fall40More brief than fly ephemeralThat has his day; while shrivelled cronesStiffen with age to stocks and stones;And crabbèd use the conscience searsIn 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 lips50Which 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.55Let not one be missing; nurse,See them laid upon the hearseOf infant slain by doom perverse.Why should kings and nobles havePictured trophies to their grave,60And we, churls, to thee denyThy pretty toys with thee to lie—A more harmless vanity?Charles Lamb.
I saw where in the shroud did lurkA curious frame of Nature’s work;A floweret crushèd in the bud,A nameless piece of Babyhood,Was in her cradle-coffin lying;5Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying:So soon to’ exchange the imprisoning wombFor darker closets of the tomb!She did but ope an eye, and putA clear beam forth, then straight up shut10For the long dark: ne’er more to seeThrough glasses of mortality.Riddle of destiny, who can show,What thy short visit meant, or knowWhat thy errand here below?15Shall we say, that Nature blindChecked her hand, and changed her mindJust when she had exactly wroughtA finished, pattern without fault?Could she flag, or could she tire,20Or 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’ assureLife of health, and days mature:25Woman’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 descry30That babe or mother, one must die;So in mercy left the stock,And cut the branch; to save the shockOf young years widowed, and the painWhen Single State comes back again35To the lone man who, reft of wife,Thenceforward drags a maimèd life?The economy of Heaven is dark,And wisest clerks have missed the markWhy human buds, like this, should fall40More brief than fly ephemeralThat has his day; while shrivelled cronesStiffen with age to stocks and stones;And crabbèd use the conscience searsIn 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 lips50Which 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.55Let not one be missing; nurse,See them laid upon the hearseOf infant slain by doom perverse.Why should kings and nobles havePictured trophies to their grave,60And we, churls, to thee denyThy pretty toys with thee to lie—A more harmless vanity?Charles Lamb.
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 shut10
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 descry30
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 again35
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 fall40
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 lips50
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 notThe 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 blest5Watch like thy mother o’er thy sleep:O peaceful night! O envied rest!Thou wilt not ever see her weep.Walter Savage Landor.
Child of a day, thou knowest notThe 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 blest5Watch like thy mother o’er thy sleep:O peaceful night! O envied rest!Thou wilt not ever see her weep.Walter Savage Landor.
Child of a day, thou knowest notThe tears that overflow thine urn,The gushing eyes that read thy lot;Nor, if thou knewest, could’st return!
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 blest5Watch like thy mother o’er thy sleep:O peaceful night! O envied rest!Thou wilt not ever see her weep.Walter Savage Landor.
And why the wish! the pure and blest5
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 lifeToo 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,5And on thine homeward way,Where violets by the reedy poolPeep out so shyly gay:Where thou, a true and gentle guide,Wouldst lead thy little band,10With all an elder sister’s pride,And rule with eye and hand.And ifwemiss, oh, who may speakWhat thoughts are hovering round Thepallet where thy fresh young cheek15Its evening slumber found?How many a tearful longing lookIn silence seeks thee yet,Where in its own familiar nookThy fireside chair is set?20And oft when little voices dimAre feeling for the noteIn chanted prayer, or psalm, or hymn,And wavering wildly float,Comes gushing o’er a sudden thought25Of her who led the strain,How oft such music home she brought—But ne’er shall bring again.O say not so! the springtide airIs fraught with whisperings sweet;30Who knows but heavenly carols thereWith ours may duly meet?Who knows how near, each holy hour,The pure and child-like deadMay linger, where in shrine or bower35The 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 thee40A garland in that region brightWhere infant spirits reign, Tingedfaintly with such golden lightAs crowns his martyr train.Nay doubt it not: his tokens sure45Were 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 free50To crave one quiet slumber moreUpon her mother’s knee.John Keble.
Sweet Maiden, for so calm a lifeToo 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,5And on thine homeward way,Where violets by the reedy poolPeep out so shyly gay:Where thou, a true and gentle guide,Wouldst lead thy little band,10With all an elder sister’s pride,And rule with eye and hand.And ifwemiss, oh, who may speakWhat thoughts are hovering round Thepallet where thy fresh young cheek15Its evening slumber found?How many a tearful longing lookIn silence seeks thee yet,Where in its own familiar nookThy fireside chair is set?20And oft when little voices dimAre feeling for the noteIn chanted prayer, or psalm, or hymn,And wavering wildly float,Comes gushing o’er a sudden thought25Of her who led the strain,How oft such music home she brought—But ne’er shall bring again.O say not so! the springtide airIs fraught with whisperings sweet;30Who knows but heavenly carols thereWith ours may duly meet?Who knows how near, each holy hour,The pure and child-like deadMay linger, where in shrine or bower35The 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 thee40A garland in that region brightWhere infant spirits reign, Tingedfaintly with such golden lightAs crowns his martyr train.Nay doubt it not: his tokens sure45Were 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 free50To crave one quiet slumber moreUpon her mother’s knee.John Keble.
Sweet Maiden, for so calm a lifeToo bitter seemed thine end;But thou hadst won thee, ere that strife,A more than earthly Friend.
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,5And on thine homeward way,Where violets by the reedy poolPeep out so shyly gay:
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,10With all an elder sister’s pride,And rule with eye and hand.
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 ifwemiss, oh, who may speakWhat thoughts are hovering round Thepallet where thy fresh young cheek15Its evening slumber found?
And ifwemiss, oh, who may speak
What thoughts are hovering round The
pallet where thy fresh young cheek15
Its evening slumber found?
How many a tearful longing lookIn silence seeks thee yet,Where in its own familiar nookThy fireside chair is set?20
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 dimAre feeling for the noteIn chanted prayer, or psalm, or hymn,And wavering wildly float,
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 thought25Of her who led the strain,How oft such music home she brought—But ne’er shall bring again.
Comes gushing o’er a sudden thought25
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 airIs fraught with whisperings sweet;30Who knows but heavenly carols thereWith ours may duly meet?
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 deadMay linger, where in shrine or bower35The mourner’s prayer is said?
Who knows how near, each holy hour,
The pure and child-like dead
May linger, where in shrine or bower35
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 thee40
And He who willed thy tender frame
(O stern yet sweet decree!)
Should wear the martyr’s robe of flame,
He hath prepared for thee40
A garland in that region brightWhere infant spirits reign, Tingedfaintly with such golden lightAs crowns his martyr train.
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 sure45Were round her death-bed shown:The wasting pain might not endure,’Twas calm ere life had flown,
Nay doubt it not: his tokens sure45
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 free50To crave one quiet slumber moreUpon her mother’s knee.John Keble.
Even as we read of Saints of yore:
Her heart and voice were free50
To crave one quiet slumber more
Upon her mother’s knee.
John Keble.
ON BEING PRESSED TO GO TO A MASQUED BALL NOT MANY MONTHS AFTER THE DEATH OF MY CHILD.
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 leads5Yon motley group that onward press?Some gaudy phantom-shape precedes,Arrayed in Pleasure’s borrowed dress.When last I sawhersmile serene,And spread her soft enchantments wide,10My 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 cheek15Still deepening as the breezes played.Exulting in his form and face,Through the bright veil that beauty wove,How did my heart delight to traceA soul—all harmony and love!20Fair 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,25His brilliant form of life and lightThrough strange gradations of decayIn sad succession shocked my sight.And since that agonizing hour,That sowed the seed of mourning years,30Beauty 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,35And joy and Frederick bloom no more.Melesina Trench.
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 leads5Yon motley group that onward press?Some gaudy phantom-shape precedes,Arrayed in Pleasure’s borrowed dress.When last I sawhersmile serene,And spread her soft enchantments wide,10My 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 cheek15Still deepening as the breezes played.Exulting in his form and face,Through the bright veil that beauty wove,How did my heart delight to traceA soul—all harmony and love!20Fair 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,25His brilliant form of life and lightThrough strange gradations of decayIn sad succession shocked my sight.And since that agonizing hour,That sowed the seed of mourning years,30Beauty 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,35And joy and Frederick bloom no more.Melesina Trench.
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.
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 leads5Yon motley group that onward press?Some gaudy phantom-shape precedes,Arrayed in Pleasure’s borrowed dress.
But art thou sure the goddess leads5
Yon motley group that onward press?
Some gaudy phantom-shape precedes,
Arrayed in Pleasure’s borrowed dress.
When last I sawhersmile serene,And spread her soft enchantments wide,10My lovely child adorned the scene,And sported by the flowing tide.
When last I sawhersmile 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 cheek15Still deepening as the breezes played.
The fairest shells for me to seek,
Intent the little wanderer strayed;
The rose that blossomed on his cheek15
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 traceA soul—all harmony and love!20
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.
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,25His brilliant form of life and lightThrough strange gradations of decayIn sad succession shocked my sight.
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,30Beauty has lost its cheering power,I see it through a mother’s tears.
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,35And joy and Frederick bloom no more.Melesina Trench.
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 lifeKept heaving to and fro.So silently we seemed to speak,5So 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;10We 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 had15Another morn than ours.Thomas Hood.
We watched her breathing through the night,Her breathing soft and low,As in her breast the wave of lifeKept heaving to and fro.So silently we seemed to speak,5So 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;10We 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 had15Another morn than ours.Thomas Hood.
We watched her breathing through the night,Her breathing soft and low,As in her breast the wave of lifeKept heaving to and fro.
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,5So slowly moved about,As we had lent her half our powers,To eke her living out.
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;10We thought her dying when she slept,And sleeping when she died.
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 had15Another morn than ours.Thomas Hood.
For when the morn came dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,
Her quiet eyelids closed—she had15
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.5Shall 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.10To Beauty? ah, no!—she forgetsThe charms which she wielded before—Nor knows the foul worm that he fretsThe skin which but yesterday fools could adore,For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore.15Shall 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.20To 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.25To 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.30Shall 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.35Unto 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!40Unto 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!45The 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.50Herbert Knowles.
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.5Shall 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.10To Beauty? ah, no!—she forgetsThe charms which she wielded before—Nor knows the foul worm that he fretsThe skin which but yesterday fools could adore,For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore.15Shall 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.20To 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.25To 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.30Shall 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.35Unto 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!40Unto 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!45The 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.50Herbert Knowles.
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
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
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 forgetsThe charms which she wielded before—Nor knows the foul worm that he fretsThe skin which but yesterday fools could adore,For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore.15
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
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 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
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
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 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
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.50Herbert Knowles.
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 woeAre brackish with the salt of human tears!Thou shoreless flood, which in thy ebb and flowClaspest the limits of mortality!5And 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?10Percy Bysshe Shelley.
Unfathomable Sea! whose waves are years,Ocean of Time, whose waters of deep woeAre brackish with the salt of human tears!Thou shoreless flood, which in thy ebb and flowClaspest the limits of mortality!5And 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?10Percy Bysshe Shelley.
Unfathomable Sea! whose waves are years,Ocean of Time, whose waters of deep woeAre brackish with the salt of human tears!Thou shoreless flood, which in thy ebb and flowClaspest the limits of mortality!5And 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?10Percy Bysshe Shelley.
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,5Every 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;10Nor 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;14They’ll shine o’er her sleep, like a smile from the West,From her own loved island of sorrow.Thomas Moore.
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,5Every 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;10Nor 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;14They’ll shine o’er her sleep, like a smile from the West,From her own loved island of sorrow.Thomas Moore.
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 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,5Every note which he loved awaking;—Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.
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;10Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,Nor long will his Love stay behind him.
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;14They’ll shine o’er her sleep, like a smile from the West,From her own loved island of sorrow.Thomas Moore.
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 assumeIts immortality!I saw a vision in my sleep,5That gave my spirit strength to sweepAdown the gulf of Time!I saw the last of human mould,That shall Creation’s death behold,As Adam saw her prime!10The sun’s eye had a sickly glare,The earth with age was wan,The skeletons of nations wereAround that lonely man!Some had expired in fight,—the brands15Still rusted in their bony hands;In plague and famine some!Earth’s cities had no sound nor tread;And ships were drifting with the deadTo shores where all was dumb!20Yet, 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,25Thy face is cold, thy race is run,’Tis mercy bids thee go;For thou ten thousand thousand yearsHast seen the tide of human tears,That shall no longer flow.30What though beneath thee man put forthHis 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,35Thou dim discrownèd king of day;For all those trophied artsAnd triumphs that beneath thee sprang,Healed not a passion or a pangEntailed on human hearts.40Go, let oblivion’s curtain fallUpon the stage of men,Nor with thy rising beams recallLife’s tragedy again.Its piteous pageants bring not back,45Nor waken flesh upon the rackOf pain anew to writhe;Stretched in disease’s shapes abhorred,Or mown in battle by the sword,Like grass beneath the scythe.50Even I am weary in yon skiesTo watch thy fading fire;Test of all sumless agonies,Behold not me expire.My lips that speak thy dirge of death—55Their rounded gasp and gurgling breathTo see thou shalt not boast.The eclipse of nature spreads my pall,—The majesty of darkness shallReceive my parting ghost!60This spirit shall return to HimWho gave its heavenly spark;Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim,When thou thyself art dark!No! it shall live again, and shine,65In 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!70Go, Sun, while mercy holds me upOn nature’s awful waste,To drink this last and bitter cupOf grief that man shall taste—Go, tell the night that hides thy face,75Thou saw’st the last of Adam’s race,On earth’s sepulchral clod,The darkening universe defyTo quench his immortality,Or shake his trust in God!80Thomas Campbell.
All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,The sun himself must die,Before this mortal shall assumeIts immortality!I saw a vision in my sleep,5That gave my spirit strength to sweepAdown the gulf of Time!I saw the last of human mould,That shall Creation’s death behold,As Adam saw her prime!10The sun’s eye had a sickly glare,The earth with age was wan,The skeletons of nations wereAround that lonely man!Some had expired in fight,—the brands15Still rusted in their bony hands;In plague and famine some!Earth’s cities had no sound nor tread;And ships were drifting with the deadTo shores where all was dumb!20Yet, 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,25Thy face is cold, thy race is run,’Tis mercy bids thee go;For thou ten thousand thousand yearsHast seen the tide of human tears,That shall no longer flow.30What though beneath thee man put forthHis 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,35Thou dim discrownèd king of day;For all those trophied artsAnd triumphs that beneath thee sprang,Healed not a passion or a pangEntailed on human hearts.40Go, let oblivion’s curtain fallUpon the stage of men,Nor with thy rising beams recallLife’s tragedy again.Its piteous pageants bring not back,45Nor waken flesh upon the rackOf pain anew to writhe;Stretched in disease’s shapes abhorred,Or mown in battle by the sword,Like grass beneath the scythe.50Even I am weary in yon skiesTo watch thy fading fire;Test of all sumless agonies,Behold not me expire.My lips that speak thy dirge of death—55Their rounded gasp and gurgling breathTo see thou shalt not boast.The eclipse of nature spreads my pall,—The majesty of darkness shallReceive my parting ghost!60This spirit shall return to HimWho gave its heavenly spark;Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim,When thou thyself art dark!No! it shall live again, and shine,65In 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!70Go, Sun, while mercy holds me upOn nature’s awful waste,To drink this last and bitter cupOf grief that man shall taste—Go, tell the night that hides thy face,75Thou saw’st the last of Adam’s race,On earth’s sepulchral clod,The darkening universe defyTo quench his immortality,Or shake his trust in God!80Thomas Campbell.
All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,The sun himself must die,Before this mortal shall assumeIts immortality!I saw a vision in my sleep,5That gave my spirit strength to sweepAdown the gulf of Time!I saw the last of human mould,That shall Creation’s death behold,As Adam saw her prime!10
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 wereAround that lonely man!Some had expired in fight,—the brands15Still rusted in their bony hands;In plague and famine some!Earth’s cities had no sound nor tread;And ships were drifting with the deadTo shores where all was dumb!20
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 brands15
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,25Thy face is cold, thy race is run,’Tis mercy bids thee go;For thou ten thousand thousand yearsHast seen the tide of human tears,That shall no longer flow.30
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 forthHis 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,35Thou dim discrownèd king of day;For all those trophied artsAnd triumphs that beneath thee sprang,Healed not a passion or a pangEntailed on human hearts.40
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 fallUpon the stage of men,Nor with thy rising beams recallLife’s tragedy again.Its piteous pageants bring not back,45Nor waken flesh upon the rackOf pain anew to writhe;Stretched in disease’s shapes abhorred,Or mown in battle by the sword,Like grass beneath the scythe.50
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 skiesTo watch thy fading fire;Test of all sumless agonies,Behold not me expire.
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—55Their rounded gasp and gurgling breathTo see thou shalt not boast.The eclipse of nature spreads my pall,—The majesty of darkness shallReceive my parting ghost!60
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 HimWho gave its heavenly spark;Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim,When thou thyself art dark!No! it shall live again, and shine,65In 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
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 upOn nature’s awful waste,To drink this last and bitter cupOf grief that man shall taste—Go, tell the night that hides thy face,75Thou saw’st the last of Adam’s race,On earth’s sepulchral clod,The darkening universe defyTo quench his immortality,Or shake his trust in God!80Thomas Campbell.
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 eyes5May weep, but never see,A night of memories and of sighsI consecrate to thee.Walter Savage Landor.
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 eyes5May weep, but never see,A night of memories and of sighsI consecrate to thee.Walter Savage Landor.
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 eyes5May weep, but never see,A night of memories and of sighsI consecrate to thee.Walter Savage Landor.
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 eyes5
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 woodsWhere primroses blow.Cold’s the snow at my head,5And 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,—10I’ll meet them both in heavenAt the spring of the year.Allan Cunningham.
Gone were but the winter cold,And gone were but the snow,I could sleep in the wild woodsWhere primroses blow.Cold’s the snow at my head,5And 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,—10I’ll meet them both in heavenAt the spring of the year.Allan Cunningham.
Gone were but the winter cold,And gone were but the snow,I could sleep in the wild woodsWhere primroses blow.
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,5And cold at my feet;And the finger of death’s at my een,Closing them to sleep.
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,—10I’ll meet them both in heavenAt the spring of the year.Allan Cunningham.
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 seemedDeath’s interposing veil, and thou so pure,Thy place in ParadiseBeyond where I could soar;Friend of this worthless heart! but happier thoughts5Spring like unbidden violets from the sod,Where patiently thou tak’stThy sweet and sure repose.The shadows fall more soothing, the soft airIs full of cheering whispers like thine own;10While 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 Heaven15Thy spirit met us there,And sought with us along the accustomed wayThe hallowed porch, and entering in beheldThe pageant of sad joy,So dear to Faith and Hope.20Oh, hadst thou brought a strain from ParadiseTo cheer us, happy soul! thou hadst not touchedThe sacred springs of griefMore tenderly and true,Than those deep-warbled anthems, high and low,25Low as the grave, high as the eternal Throne,Guiding through light and gloomOur mourning fancies wild,Till gently, like soft golden clouds at eveAround the western twilight, all subside30Into a placid Faith,That e’en with beaming eyeCounts thy sad honours, coffin, bier, and pall:So many relics of a frail love lost,So many tokens dear35Of endless love begun.Listen! it is no dream: the Apostle’s trumpGives earnest of the Archangel’s: calmly now,Our hearts yet beating highTo that victorious lay,40Most like a warrior’s, to the martial dirgeOf a true comrade, in the grave we trustOur treasure for a while;And if a tear steal down,If human anguish o’er the shaded brow45Pass shuddering, when the handful of pure earthTouches the coffin-lid;If at our brother’s nameOnce and again the thought, ‘For ever gone,’Comes o’er us like a cloud; yet, gentle spright,50Thou 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 view55That 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 meetWith thy dear pardoning words.60John Keble.
I thought to meet no more, so dreary seemedDeath’s interposing veil, and thou so pure,Thy place in ParadiseBeyond where I could soar;Friend of this worthless heart! but happier thoughts5Spring like unbidden violets from the sod,Where patiently thou tak’stThy sweet and sure repose.The shadows fall more soothing, the soft airIs full of cheering whispers like thine own;10While 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 Heaven15Thy spirit met us there,And sought with us along the accustomed wayThe hallowed porch, and entering in beheldThe pageant of sad joy,So dear to Faith and Hope.20Oh, hadst thou brought a strain from ParadiseTo cheer us, happy soul! thou hadst not touchedThe sacred springs of griefMore tenderly and true,Than those deep-warbled anthems, high and low,25Low as the grave, high as the eternal Throne,Guiding through light and gloomOur mourning fancies wild,Till gently, like soft golden clouds at eveAround the western twilight, all subside30Into a placid Faith,That e’en with beaming eyeCounts thy sad honours, coffin, bier, and pall:So many relics of a frail love lost,So many tokens dear35Of endless love begun.Listen! it is no dream: the Apostle’s trumpGives earnest of the Archangel’s: calmly now,Our hearts yet beating highTo that victorious lay,40Most like a warrior’s, to the martial dirgeOf a true comrade, in the grave we trustOur treasure for a while;And if a tear steal down,If human anguish o’er the shaded brow45Pass shuddering, when the handful of pure earthTouches the coffin-lid;If at our brother’s nameOnce and again the thought, ‘For ever gone,’Comes o’er us like a cloud; yet, gentle spright,50Thou 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 view55That 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 meetWith thy dear pardoning words.60John Keble.
I thought to meet no more, so dreary seemedDeath’s interposing veil, and thou so pure,Thy place in ParadiseBeyond where I could soar;
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 thoughts5Spring like unbidden violets from the sod,Where patiently thou tak’stThy sweet and sure repose.
Friend of this worthless heart! but happier thoughts5
Spring like unbidden violets from the sod,
Where patiently thou tak’st
Thy sweet and sure repose.
The shadows fall more soothing, the soft airIs full of cheering whispers like thine own;10While Memory, by thy grave,Lives o’er thy funeral day;
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 Heaven15Thy spirit met us there,
The deep knell dying down; the mourners’ pause,
Waiting their Saviour’s welcome at the gate;
Sure with the words of Heaven15
Thy spirit met us there,
And sought with us along the accustomed wayThe hallowed porch, and entering in beheldThe pageant of sad joy,So dear to Faith and Hope.20
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 ParadiseTo cheer us, happy soul! thou hadst not touchedThe sacred springs of griefMore tenderly and true,
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,25Low as the grave, high as the eternal Throne,Guiding through light and gloomOur mourning fancies wild,
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 eveAround the western twilight, all subside30Into a placid Faith,That e’en with beaming eye
Till gently, like soft golden clouds at eve
Around the western twilight, all subside30
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 dear35Of endless love begun.
Counts thy sad honours, coffin, bier, and pall:
So many relics of a frail love lost,
So many tokens dear35
Of endless love begun.
Listen! it is no dream: the Apostle’s trumpGives earnest of the Archangel’s: calmly now,Our hearts yet beating highTo that victorious lay,40
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 dirgeOf a true comrade, in the grave we trustOur treasure for a while;And if a tear steal down,
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 brow45Pass shuddering, when the handful of pure earthTouches the coffin-lid;If at our brother’s name
If human anguish o’er the shaded brow45
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,50Thou turnest not away,Thou know’st us calm at heart.
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 view55That countenance pure again,
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 view55
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 meetWith thy dear pardoning words.60John Keble.
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.