DIRGE OF JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER.

Thou wonder of all maids, rest here!
Of daughters all the dearest deare,
The eye of virgins; nay, the queen
Of this smooth green,

And all sweet meades from whence we get
The primrose and the violet!

Too soone, too deare, did Jephthah buy,

By thy sad losse, our liberty;

His was the bond and covenant, yet
Thou paid'st the debt.

Lamented maid! he won the day,
But for the conquest thou didst pay.

Thy father brought with him along
The olive branch, and victor's song.
He slew the Ammonites, we know:
But to thy woe;

And in the purchase of our peace
The cure was worse than the disease.

For which obedient zeale of thine
We offer here, before thy shrine,
Our sighs for storax, teares for wine;
And, to make fine

And fresh thy herse-cloth, we will here
Four times bestrew thee every yeare.

Receive, for this thy praise, our teares!

Receive this offering of our haires!

Receive these christall vials, filled

DIRGE OF JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER.

With teares distilled

From teeming eyes! To these we bring,
Each maid, her silver filleting,

To guild thy tombe. Besides, these caules,
These laces, ribbands, and these faules;
These veiles, wherewith we use to hide
The bashfull bride

When we conduct her to her groome:
All, all we lay upon thy tombe!

No more, no more, since thou art dead,
Shall we e'er bring coy brides to bed;
No more, at yearly festivalls,

We cowslip balls,

Or chaines of columbines, shall make
For this or that occasion's sake.

No, no! our maiden pleasures be
Wrapt in the winding-sheet with thee:
'Tis we are dead, though not i̇' th' grave;
Or if we have

One seed of life left, 'tis to keep

A Lent for thee- -to fast and weep.

Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice,

And make this place all paradise!

May sweets grow here, and smoke from hence Fat frankincense!

Let balme and cassia send their scent

From out thy maiden monument!

THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF HER FAWN.

May no wolfe howle, or screech-owle stir
A wing about thy sepulchre!

No boysterous winds or storms come hither,
To starve or wither

Thy soft sweet earth; but, like a Spring,
Love keep it ever flourishing!

May all shie maids, at wonted hours,
Come forth to strew thy tombe with flowers!
May virgins, when they come to mourn,
Male incense burn

Upon thine altar; then return,

And leave thee sleeping in thy urn!

ROBERT HERRICK.

THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF HER FAWN.

THE wanton troopers, riding by,

Have shot my fawn, and it will die.
Ungentle men! they cannot thrive,
Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst, alive,
Them any harm; alas! nor could
Thy death yet do them any good.
I'm sure I never wished them ill,
Nor do I for all this, nor will;
But, if my simple prayers may yet
Prevail with Heaven to forget
Thy murder, I will join my tears,
Rather than fail. But O, my fears!

THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF HER FAWN.

It cannot die so.

Heaven's King

Keeps register of everything,

And nothing may we use in vain ;
Even beasts must be with justice slain,
Else men are made their deodands.

Though they should wash their guilty hands
In this warm life-blood, which doth part
From thine and wound me to the heart,
Yet could they not be clean- their stain
Is dyed in such a purple grain ;
There is not such another in
The world, to offer for their sin.
Inconstant Sylvio! when yet
I had not found him counterfeit,
One morning (I remember well),
Tied in this silver chain and bell,
Gave it to me. Nay, and I know
What he said then I'm sure I do:

Said he, "Look how your huntsman here
Hath taught a fawn to hunt his dear!"
But Sylvio soon had me beguiled:
This waxed tame, while he grew wild;
And, quite regardless of my smart,
Left me his fawn, but took his heart.
Thenceforth, I set myself to play
My solitary time away,

With this; and, very well content,
Could so mine idle life have spent.
For it was full of sport, and light
Of foot and heart, and did invite.
Me to its game. It seemed to bless

THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF HER FAWN.

Itself in me; how could I less
Than love it? O! I cannot be
Unkind t'a beast that loveth me.

Had it lived long, I do not know
Whether it, too, might have done so
As Sylvio did his gifts might be
Perhaps as false, or more, than he.
For I am sure, for aught that I
Could in so short a time espy,
Thy love was far more better than
The love of false and cruel man.

With sweetest milk, and sugar, first
I it at mine own fingers nursed ;
And as it grew, so every day

It waxed more white and sweet than they.

It had so sweet a breath! and oft

I blushed to see its foot more soft

And white-shall I say than my hand?
Nay! any lady's of the land.

It is a wondrous thing how fleet
'Twas, on those little silver feet!
With what a pretty, skipping grace
It oft would challenge me the race!
And when 't had left me far away,
"Twould stay, and run again, and stay;
For it was nimbler, much, than hinds,
And trod as if on the four winds.

I have a garden of my own,

But so with roses overgrown,
And lilies, that you would it guess
To be a little wilderness;