Pagina-afbeeldingen
PDF
ePub

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to mis'ry (all he had) a tear,

He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God.

Mitford's Text.

30.

WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY.

To R. T. H. B.

OUT of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years

Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

[blocks in formation]

And from the west,

Where the sun, his day's work ended,

Lingers as in content,

There falls on the old, grey city

An influence luminous and serene,

A shining peace.

The smoke ascends

In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires
Shine, and are changed. In the valley

Shadows rise. The lark sings on.

Closing his benediction,

Sinks, and the darkening air

The sun,

Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night

Night with her train of stars

And her great gift of sleep.

So be my passing!

My task accomplished and the long day done,

My wages taken, and in my heart

Some late lark singing,

Let me be gathered to the quiet west,
The sundown splendid and serene,

Death.

1898 Edition.

32.

GEORGE HERBERT.

Virtue.

SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky:

The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;
For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye:

Thy root is ever in its grave,

And thou must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie;

My music shows ye have your closes,
And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,

Like season'd timber, never gives;

But though the whole world turn to coal,

Then chiefly lives.

1633 Edition.

« VorigeDoorgaan »