ACCEPT, thou shrine of my dead saint, And for sweet flowers to crown thy hearse From thy grieved friend, whom thou might'st see Quite melted into tears for thee. Dear loss! since thy untimely fate, Though almost blind; for thee (loved clay) But what I practice with mine eyes; Nor wonder if my time go thus Backward and most preposterous; Thou hast benighted me; thy set This eve of blackness did beget, Who wast my day (though overcast Before thou hadst thy noontide passed), And I remember must in tears Thou scarce hadst seen so many years As day tells hours: by thy clear sun My love and fortune first did run : But thou wilt nevermore appear I could allow thee for a time To darken me, and my sad clime: Were it a month, or year, or ten, I would thy exile live till then. And all that space my mirth adjourn, So thou wouldst promise to return, And, putting off thy ashy shroud, At length disperse this sable cloud. But woe is me! the longest date A glimpse of thee, till that day come Meantime thou hast her, Earth: much good May my harm do thee! Since it stood With Heaven's will I might not call Her longer mine, I give thee all My short-lived right and interest In her whom living I loved best. With a most free and bounteous grief I give thee what I could not keep. Be kind to her, and, prithee, look Thou write into thy doomsday book Each parcel of this rarity Which in thy casket shrined doth lie. See that thou make thy reckoning straight, As thou wilt answer Him that lent, So close the ground, and 'bout her shade Sleep on, my love, in thy cold bed Never to be disquieted! My last good-night! Thou wilt not wake Till age or grief, or sickness must It so much loves, and fill the room To meet thee in that hollow vale. And think not much of my delay; I am already on the way, And follow thee with all the speed "Tis true, with shame and grief I yield; Before me, whose more years might crave The thought of this bids me go on, And wait my dissolution With hope and comfort. Dear (forgive HENRY KING. The Dirge of Imogen. FEAR no more the heat o' the sun, Home art gone and ta'en thy wages: Fear no more the frown o' the great- 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. No exorciser harm thee! WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. Wirge of Jephthah's Waughter. SUNG BY THE VIRGINS. O THOU, the wonder of all dayes! O paragon, and pearl of praise! O virgin-martyr, ever blest Above the rest Of all the maiden traine! We come, And bring fresh strewings to thy tombe. Thus, thus, and thus we compasse round And other flowers, lay upon Thou, wonder of all maids, rest here— And all sweet meades from whence we get Too soone, too deere, did Jephthah buy, His was the bond and cov'nant, yet 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 And fresh thy herse-cloth, we will here Receive, for this thy praise, our tears; Receive this offering of our haires; Receive these christall vials, filled With tears distilled From teeming eyes; to these we bring, Each maid, her silver filleting, To guild thy tombe; besides, these caules, No more, no more, since thou art dead, Or chaines of columbines, shall make No, no! our maiden pleasures be One seed of life left, 'tis to keep A Lent for thee, to fast and weep. Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, May sweets grow here, and smoke from hence Let balme and cassia send their scent May no wolfe howle, or screech-owle stir A wing about thy sepulchre ; No boysterous winds or storms come hither, Thy soft sweet earth; but, like a spring, May all shie maids, at wonted hours, Come forth to strew thy tombe with flowers; Upon thine altar; then return, And leave thee sleeping in thy urn. ROBERT HERRICK. And set it round with celandine, The ruddock he shall build his nest And he shall warble his sweet song And we will now thy garments take, We'll lay thee by thy true-love's side, That thou may'st be a faithful bride! When I am dead, and buried be, Pray to God in heaven for me! Now thou art dead, we'll bury thee, And pray to God in heaven for thee! Benedicite! WILLIAM STANLEY ROSCOE. |