Whom while on earth each one did prize The fairest thing in mortal eyes. But naught our tears avail, or cries; All soon or late in death shall sleep; From the French of CHARLES DUKE OF ORLEANS. SONNET. The funeral sermon was on the text, "The Master is come, and calleth for thee" (John x1. 28). RISE, said the Master, come unto the feast ; That gives her entrance to the blissful bowers. DEATH THE LEVELLER. These verses are said to have "chilled the heart" of Oliver Cromwell. THE glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armor against fate; Death lays his icy hand on kings: Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made Some men with swords may reap the field, They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow, Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon death's purple altar now See where the victor-victim bleeds : To the cold tomb; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. JAMES SHIRLEY, HENRY ALFORD. FEAR NO MORE THE HEAT O' THE SUN. FROM "CYMBELINF," ACT IV. SC. 2. FEAR no more the heat o' the sun, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages: Fear no more the frown o' the great, Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; Care no more to clothe, and cat ; To thee the reed is as the oak: The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this and come to dust. Fear no more the lightning flash Thou hast finished joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust. SHAKESPEARE SIC VITA.* LIKE to the falling of a star, VIRTUE IMMORTAL. HENRY KING. SWEET Day, so cool, so calm, so bright, Fields and Whipple, in their admirable Family Library of British Poets, add the following note: "This poem, of which there are nine imitations, is claimed for Francis Beaumont by some authorities The fixed yet tender traits that streak The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon; So fair, so calm, so softly sealed, The first, last look by death revealed! 'T is Greece, but living Greece no more! That parts not quite with parting breath; A gilded halo hovering round decay, LIFE. "Animula, vagula, blandula." LIFE! I know not what thou art, But know that thou and I must part; And when, or how, or where we met I own to me 's a secret yet. But this I know, when thou art fled, Where'er they lay these limbs, this head, No clod so valueless shall be, As all that then remains of me. O, whither, whither dost thou fly, Where bend unseen thy trackless course, And in this strange divorce, BYRON. Ah, tell where I must seek this compound I? To the vast ocean of empyreal flame, Wait, like some spell-bound knight, Through blank, oblivious years the appointed hour To break thy trance and reassume thy power? Yet canst thou, without thought or feeling he/ O, say what art thou, when no more thou 'rt theo Say not Good Night, — but in some brighter Are thoughts and passions that to the tongue clime Bid me Good Morning. ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD. THE HUSBAND AND WIFE'S GRAVE. give speech, And make it send forth winning harmonies, O listen, man! A voice within us speaks the startling word. O listen, ye, our spirits! drink it in Harmonious, sensitive, at every beat But, self-inspired, rise upward, searching out quenched? they Or burn they on, hid from our mortal eyes 1 eve, All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse, The dying hear it; and, as sounds of earth Why is it that I linger round this tomb? What holds it? Dust that cumbered those I mourn. They shook it off, and laid aside earth's robes, And thought, pervading, mingling sense and | Into its furrows shall we all be cast, thought! Ye paired, yet one! wrapt in a consciousness I thank thee, Father, That at this simple grave on which the dawn Is breaking, emblem of that day which hath No close, thou kindly unto my dark mind Hast sent a sacred light, and that away From this green hillock, whither I had come In sorrow, thou art leading me in joy. RICHARD HENRY DANA. GREENWOOD CEMETERY. The willow hangs with sheltering grace O weary hearts, what rest is here, From all that curses yonder town! For, oh, it will be blest to sleep, Nor dream, nor move, that silent night, Till wakened in immortal strength And heavenly light! CRAMMOND KENNEDY. GOD'S-ACRE. I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase which calls The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just; It consecrates each grave within its walls, And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts Comfort to those who in the grave have sown The seed that they had garnered in their hearts, Their bread of life, alas! no more their own. In the sure faith that we shall rise again Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod, And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; This is the field and Acre of our God, This is the place where human harvests grow! HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds: Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign. [Hark! how the holy calm that breathes around Bids every fierce tumultuous passion cease; In still small accents whispering from the ground The grateful earnest of eternal peace.]* Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care; No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. • Removed by the author from the original poem |