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Death! death! canst thou be lovely

The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day; Unto the eye of life?

But glory remains when their lights fade away. Is not each pulse of the quick high breast Begin, you tormentors ! your threats are in vain, With thy cold mien at strife ?

For the sons of Alknomook will never complain. – It was a strange and fearful sight, The crown upon that head,

Remember the arrows he shot from his bow; The glorious robes, and the blaze of light, Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low ! All gathered round the Dead !

Why so slow ? do you wait till I shrink from the

pain ? And beside her stood in silence

No! the son of Alknomook shall never complain. One with a brow as pale, And white lips rigidly compressed,

Remember the wood where in ambush we lay, Lest the strong heart should fail :

And the scalps which we bore from your nation King Pedro, with a jealous eye,

away. Watching the homage done,

Now the flame rises fast, you exult in my pain ; By the land's flower and chivalry,

But the son of Alknomook can never complain. To her, his martyred one.

I go to the land where my father is gone; But on the face he looked not,

His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son. Which once his star had been ;

Death comes, like a friend, to relieve me from

pain; To every form his glance was turned,

| And thy son, 0 Alknomook ! has scorned to comSave of the breathless queen ;

menn Though something, won from the grave's embrace,

Of her beauty still was there,
Its hues were all of that shadowy place,
It was not for him to bear.



Aluz ! the crown, the sceptre,

The treasures of the earth,
And the priceless love that poured those gifts,

Alike of wasted worth !
The rites are closed ; – bear back the dead
Unto the chamber deep!

She shrank from all, and her silent mood
Made her wish only for solitude :
Her eye sought the ground, as it could Kot brook,
For innermost shame, on another's to look ;
And the cheerings of comfort felge on her ear
| Like deadliest words, that wer is curses to hear !--

She still was young, and she had been fair ;

But weather-stains, hunger, toil, and care,
That frost and fever that wear the heart,

Had made the colors of youth depart

QUEEN. Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted color From the sallow cheek, save over it came

off, The burning flush of the spirit's shame.

And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark.

Do not, forever, with thy veiled lids They were sailing o'er the salt sea-foam,

Seek for thy noble father in the dust : Far from her country, far from her home;

Thou know'st 't is common, — all that live must And all she had left for her friends to keep

die, Was a name to hide and a memory to weep!

Passing through nature to eternity. And her future held forth but the felon's lot,

HAMLET. Ay, madam, it is common. To live forsaken, to die forgot!


If it be, She could not weep, and she could not pray,

Why seems it so particular with thee?
But she wasted and withered from day to day,
Till you might have counted each sunken vein,

Ham. Seems, madam ! nay, it is ; I know not

seems. When her wrist was prest by the iron chain ;

| 'T is not alone my inky cloak, good mother, And sometimes I thought her large dark eye

Nor customary suits of solemn black, Had the glisten of red insanity.

Nor windy suspiration of forced breath, She called me once to her sleeping-place,

No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, A strange, wild look was upon her face,

Nor the dejected havior of the visage, Her eye flashed over her cheek so white,

Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief, Like a gravestone seen in the pale moonlight,

That can denote me truly : these, indeed, seem, And she spoke in a low, unearthly tone,

For they are actions that a man might play : The sound from mine ear hath never gone !

But I have that within, which passeth show; “I had last night the loveliest dream :

These, but the trappings and the suits of woe. My own land shone in the summer beam,

SHAKESPEARE. I saw the fields of the golden grain, I heard the reaper's harvest strain ; There stood on the hills the green pine-tree,

SOLILOQUY ON DEATH. And the thrush and the lark sang merrily.

FROM "HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK.” A long and a weary way I had come ; But I stopped, methought, by mine own sweet home. I HAMLET. To be, or not to be, – that is the I stood by the hearth, and my father sat there,

question :With pale, thin face, and snow-white hair !

Whether 't is nobler in the mind to suffer The Bible lay open upon his knee,

| The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, But he closed the book to welcome me.

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, He led me next where my mother lay,

And, by opposing, end them ? --- To die, – to And together we knelt by her grave to pray,

sleep ;And heard a hymn it was heaven to hear,

No more ; and, by a sleep, to say we end For it echoed one to my young days dear.

The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks This dream has waked feelings long, long since fled, I That flesh is heir

long sincefled That flesh is heir to, -- 't is a consummation And hopes which I deemed in my heart were dead! | Devoutly to be wished. To die, - to sleep :- We have not spoken, but still I have hung

To sleep! perchance to dream :-ay, there's the On the Northern accents that dwell on thy tongue.

rub; To me they are music, to me they recall

*** For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, The things long hidden by Memory's pall !

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Take this long curl of yellow hair,

| Must give us pause : there's the respect And give it my father, and tell him my prayer,

That makes calamity of so long life ;
My dying prayer, was for him."....

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Theoppressor's wrong, the proud man'scontumely,

The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, Upon the deck a coffin lay;

The insolence of office, and the spurns They raised it up, and like a dirge

That patient merit of the unworthy takes, The heavy gale swept o'er the surge ;

When he himself might his quietus make The corpse was cast to the wind and wave, —

With a bare bodkin ? who would fardels bear, The convict has found in the green sea a grave.

To grunt and sweat under a weary life, LÆTITIA E. LÅNDON. I But that the dread of something after death,

Next day

That undiscovered country, from whose bourn | And do our loves all perish with our frames ?
No traveller returns, – puzzles the will, Do those that took their root and put forth buds,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have, And then soft leaves unfolded in the warmth
Than fly to others that we know not of? Of mutual hearts, grow up and live in beauty,
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; Then fade and fall, like fair, unconscious flowers ?
And thus the native hue of resolution

Are thoughts and passions that to the tongue give Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;

speech, And enterprises of great pith and moment, And make it set forth winning harmonies, With this regard, their currents turn awry,

| That to the cheek do give its living glow, And lose the name of action.

And vision in the eye the soul intense

With that for which there is no utterance, -
Are these the body's accidents, no more?

To live in it, and when that dies go out
THE HUSBAND AND WIFE'S GRAVE. Like the burnt taper's flame ?
HUSBAND and wife ! no converse now ye hold,

O listen, man!
As once ye did in your young days of love, A voice within us speaks the startling word,
On its alarms, its anxious hours, delays, “Man, thou shalt never die!" celestial voices
Its silent meditations and glad hopes,

| Hymn it around our souls ; according harps, Its fears, impatience, quiet sympathies; . By angel fingers touched when the mild stars Nor do ye speak of joy assured, and bliss Of morning sang together, sound forth still Full, certain, and possessed. Domestic cares The song of our great immortality; Call you not now together. Earnest talk

Thick-clustering orbs, and this our fair domain, On what your children may be moves you not. The tall, dark mountains and the deep-toned seas, Ye lie in silence, and an awful silence;

Join in this solemn, universal song. Not like to that in which ye rested once

O listen, ye, our spirits ! drink it in Most happy, - silence eloquent, when heart From all the air ! 'T is in the gentle moonlight; With heart held speech, and your mysterious Is floating in day's setting glories ; Night, frames,

| Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step Harmonious, sensitive, at every beat

Comes to our bed and breathes it in our ears;Touched the soft notes of love.

Nightand the dawn, bright day and thoughtfuleve,

As one great mystic instrument, are touched A stillness deep,

By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords Insensible, unheeding, folds you round,

Quiver with joy in this great jubilee. And darkness, as a stone, has sealed you in ;

The dying hear it; and, as sounds of earth Away from all the living, here ye rest,

Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls In all the nearness of the narrow tomb,

To mingle in this heavenly harmony.
Yet feel ye not each other's presence now; -
Dreal fellowship! — together, yet alone. Why is it that I linger round this tomb ?

Is this thy prison-house, thy grave, then, Love? What holds it? Dust that cumbered those I
And doth death cancel the great bond that holds mourn.
Commingling spirits? Are thoughts that know no They shook it off, and laid aside earth's robes,

And put on those of light. They 're gone to dwell But, self-inspired, rise upward, searching out In love, – their God's and angels' ? Mutual love, The Eternal Mind, the Father of all thought, - That bound them here, no longer needs a speech Are they become mere tenants of a tomb? For full communion ; nor sensations strong, Dwellers in darkness, who the illuminate realms Within the breast, their prison, strive in vain Of uncreated light have visited and lived ? To be set free, and meet their kind in joy. Lived in the dreadful splendor of that throne Changed to celestials, thoughts that rise in each Which One, with gentle hand the veil of flesh : By natures new impart themselves, though silent. Lifting that hung 'twixt man and it, revealed Each quickening sense, each throb of holy love, In glory ? - throne before which even now Affections sanctified, and the full glow Our souls, moved by prophetic power, bow down Of being, which expand and gladden one, Rejoicing, yet at their own natures awed ? - By union all mysterious, thrill and live Souls that thee know by a mysterious sense, In both immortal frames ; -- sensation all, Thouawful unseen Presence,--are they quenched ? | And thought, pervading, mingling sense and Or burn they on, hid from our mortal eyes

thought! By that bright day which ends not, as the sun Ye paired, yet one! wrapt in a consciousness His robe of light flings round the glittering stars ? | Twofold, yet single, - this is love, this life!



Why call we, then, the square-built monument, Not to be ended! Ended bliss,
The upright column, and the low-laid slab And life that will not end in this !
Tokens of death, memorials of decay?

My days go on, my days go on.
Stand in this solemn, still assembly, man,
And learn thy proper nature ; for thou seest
In these shaped stones and lettered tables figures Breath freezes on my lips to moan :
Of life. Then be they to thy soul as those As one alone, once not alone,
Which he who talked on Sinai's mount with God I sit and knock at Nature's door,
Brought to the old Judeans ; – types are these

Heart-bare, heart-hungry, very poor,
Of thine eternity.

Whose desolated days go on.
I thank thee, Father,
That at this simple grave on which the dawn

I knock and cry, — Undone, undone !
Is breaking, emblem of that day which hath

Is there no help, no comfort, - none ? No close, thou kindly unto my dark mind

No gleaning in the wide wheat-plains Hast sent a sacred light, and that away

Where others drive their loaded wains ?
From this green hillock, whither I had come

My vacant days go on, go on.
In sorrow, thou art leading me in joy.

This Nature, though the snows be down,

Thinks kindly of the bird of June :

The little red hip on the tree
Is ripe for such. What is for me,

Whose days so winterly go on?
The face which, duly as the sun,
Rose up for me with life begun,
To mark all bright hours of the day

No bird am I, to sing in June,
With hourly love, is dimmed away, -

And dare not ask an equal boon. And yet my days go on, go on.

Good nests and berries red are Nature's

To give away to better creatures, —

And yet my days go on, go on.
The tongue which, like a stream, could run
Smooth music from the roughest stone,

And every morning with “Good day"

I ask less kindness to be done, -' Make each day good, is hushed away, — Only to loose these pilgrim-shoon, And yet my days go on, go on.

(Too early worn and grimed) with sweet
Cool deathly touch to these tired feet,

Till days go out which now go on.
The heart which, like a staff, was one
For mine to lean and rest upon,

The strongest on the longest day
With steadfast love, is caught away, -

From gracious Nature have I won
And yet my days go on, go on.

Such liberal bounty? may I run

So, lizard-like, within her side,

And there be safe, who now am tried
And cold before my summer 's done,

By days that painfully go on?
And deaf in Nature's general tune,
And fallen too low for special fear,

xv. And here, with hope no longer here, —

- A Voice reproves me thereupon, While the tears drop, my days go on.

More sweet than Nature's when the drone v.

Of bees is sweetest, and more deep The world goes whispering to its own,

Than when the rivers overleap This anguish pierces to the bone" ;

The shuddering pines, and thunder on. And tender friends go sighing round,

XVI. “What love can ever cure this wound ?"

God's Voice, not Nature's. Night and noon My days go on, my days go on.

He sits upon the great white throne

And listens for the creatures' praise.
The past rolls forward on the sun

What babble we of days and days ? And makes all night. O dreams begun, The Day.spring he, whose days go on.





Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, He reigns above, he reigns alone ;

And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Systems burn out and leave his throne :

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, Fair mists of seraphs melt and fall

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; Around him, changeless amid all,

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, Ancient of Days, whose days go on.

The moping owl does to the moon complain

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, He reigns below, he reigns alone,

Molest her ancient, solitary reign. And, having life in love foregone

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Beneath the crown of sovran thorns,

Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering He reigns the jealous God. Who mourns

heap, Or rules with him, while days go on?

Each in his narrow cell forever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. ΧΙΧ. By anguish which made pale the sun,

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, I hear him charge his saints that none

• The swallow twittering from the straw-built Among his creatures anywhere Blaspheme against him with despair,

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, However darkly days go on.

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Take from my head the thorn-wreath brown!

Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; No mortal grief deserves that crown.

No children run to lisp their sire's return, O supreme Love, chief Misery,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. The sharp regalia are for Thee

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Whose days eternally go on !

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ;

How jocund did they drive their team afield ! XXI.

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy For us, - whatever 's undergone,

stroke ! Thou knowest, willest what is done. Grief may be joy misunderstood;

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Only the Good discerns the good,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; I trust thee while my days go on.

Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile

The short and simple annals of the poor. XXII.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, Whatever 's lost, it first was won :

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, We will not struggle nor impugn.

Await alike the inevitable hour ; Perhaps the cup was broken here,

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. That Heaven's new wine might show more clear. I praise thee while my days go on.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,

If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, XXIII.

Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted I praise thee while my days go on;

vault, I love thee while my days go on ;

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Through dark and dearth, through fire and frost, With emptied arms and treasure lost,

Can storied urn, or animated bust, I thank thee while my days go on.

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death ? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY

Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, CHURCHYARD.

Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre ;
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day ; But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 1 Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ;
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, Chill penury repressed their noble rage,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. And froze the genial current of the soul.

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