e e'er thy bones are hurled,
stormy Hebrides,
inder the whelming tide
the monstrous world;
>ur moist vows denied,
of Bellerus old,
n of the guarded Mount
icos and Bayona's hold;
el, now, and melt with ruth:
waft the hapless youth.
ful Shepherds, weep no more,
row is not dead,
eneath the watery floor.
in the Ocean bed,
; his drooping head,
, and with new-spangled Ore,
ad of the morning sky:
but mounted high,
ight of Him that walked the waves
and other streams along,
s oozy Locks he laves,
ressive nuptial Song,
ns meek of joy and love.
all the Saints above,
id sweet Societies,
ng in their glory move,
for ever from his eyes.
Shepherds weep no more;
the Genius of the shore,
ense, and shalt be good
in that perilous flood.
couth Swain to the Oaks and rills,
I went out with Sandals gray,
der stops of various Quills,
warbling his Doric lay:
ad stretched out all the hills,
into the Western bay;
I twitched his Mantle blue:
Woods, and Pastures new.
John Milton [1608-1674]
TO THE MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE LADY
WHAT beckoning ghost along the moonlight shade
Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?
'Tis she!-but why that bleeding bosom gored?
Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?
O ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,
Is it in heaven a crime to love too well,
To bear too tender or too firm a heart,
To act a lover's or a Roman's part?
Is there no bright reversion in the sky,
For those who greatly think or bravely die?
Why bade ye else, ye Powers! her soul aspire
Above the vulgar flight of low desire?
Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes,
The glorious fault of angels and of gods;
Thence to their images on earth it flows,
And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows.
Most souls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age,
Dull sullen prisoners in the body's cage:
Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years,
Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres;
Like Eastern kings a lazy state they keep,
And, close confined to their own palace, sleep.
From these perhaps (ere Nature bade her die),
Fate snatched her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer spirits flow,
And separate from their kindred dregs below,
So flew the soul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.
But thou, false guardian of a charge too good!
Thou, mean deserter of thy brother's blood!
See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,
These cheeks now fading at the blast of Death.
Cold is that breast which warmed the world before,
And those love-darting eyes must roll no more.
Thus, if eternal Justice rules the ball,
Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall;
es shall besiege your gates.
all stand, and pointing say
erals blacken all the way),
ey whose souls the Furies steeled,
arts unknowing how to yield."
ass the proud away,
nd pageant of a day!
breast ne'er learned to glow
r melt at others' woe!
(O ever-injured shade!)
and thy rites unpaid?
int, no kind domestic tear
host, or graced thy mournful bier.
hy dying eyes were closed,
hy decent limbs composed,
hy humble grave adorned,
red, and by strangers mourned!
riends in sable weeds appear,
, perhaps, then mourn a year,
e mockery of woe
es, and the public show?
weeping Loves thy ashes grace,
ble emulate thy face?
acred earth allow thee room,
e be muttered o'er thy tomb?
e with rising flowers be dressed,
f lie lightly on thy breast:
orn her earliest tears bestow,
ses of the year shall blow;
their silver wings o'ershade
sacred by thy reliques made.
ts, without a stone, a name,
eauty, titles, wealth, and fame.
honored once, avails thee not,
, or by whom begot;
one remains of thee,
and all the proud shall be!
es must fall, like those they sung, ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.
Even he whose soul now melts in mournful lays
Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays;
Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,
And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart:
Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er,
The Muse forgot, and thou beloved no more!
Alexander Pope [1688-1744]
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY
CHURCHYARD
THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
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.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever 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.
their sickle yield,
stubborn glebe has broke: drive their team afield!
ods beneath their sturdy stroke!
ck their useful toil, and destiny obscure; ith a disdainful smile ble annals of the poor.
the pomp of power, y, all that wealth e'er gave,
table hour:
lead but to the grave.
mpute to these the fault
eir tomb no trophies raise,
ong-drawn aisle and fretted vault
m swells the note of praise.
on call the fleeting breath? rovoke the silent dust,
e the dull cold ear of death?
ected spot is laid
pregnant with celestial fire;
of empire might have swayed, asy the living lyre.
their eyes her ample page
oils of time did ne'er unroll;
sed their noble rage,
nial current of the soul.
f purest ray serene
omed caves of ocean bear: is born to blush unseen, eetness on the desert air.
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