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LIFE.

That fires not, wins not, weeps not now,

And but for that chill, changeless brow,
Where cold Obstruction's apathy
Appalls the gazing mourner's heart,
As if to him it could impart
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ;
Yes, but for these and these alone,
Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the tyrant's power;
So fair, so calm, so softly sealed,
The first, last look by death revealed !
Such is the aspect of this shore ;
'T is Greece, but living Greece no more !
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start, for soul is wanting there.
Hers is the loveliness in death,
That parts not quite with parting breath;
But beauty with that fearful bloom,
That hue which haunts it to the tomb,
Expression's last receding ray,
A gilded halo hovering round decay,

The farewell beam of Feeling past away; Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished earth!

BYRON.

LIKE to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood, -
E'en such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in, and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring entombed in autumn lies,
The dew dries up, the star is shot,
The flight is past, – and man forgot!

HENRY KING.

THE GRAVE.

THERE is a calm for those who weep,
A rest for weary pilgrims found,
They softly lie and sweetly sleep

Low in the ground.

The storm that wrecks the winter sky No more disturbs their deep repose, Than summer-evening's latest sigh

That shuts the rose.

I long to lay this painful head
And aching heart beneath the soil,
To slumber in that dreamless bed

From all my toil.

DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST.
These verses are said to have "chilled the heart” of Oliver
Cromwell.)
THE glories of our birth and state

Are shadows, not substantial things ;
There is no armor against fate, -
Death lays his icy hands on kings;

Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

For Misery stole me at my birth,
And cast me helpless on the wild :
I perish ; - O my Mother Earth,

Take home thy Child !

On thy dear lap these limbs reclined,
Shall gently moulder into thee;
Nor leave one wretched trace behind

Resembling me.

Some men with swords may reap the field,

And plant fresh laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves at last must yield, They tame but one another still ;

Early or late

They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death.

Hark! a strange sound affrights mine ear, My pulse, — my brain runs wild, - I rave; - Ah! who art thou whose voice I hear ?

-“I am the Grave!

“The Grave, that never spake before, Hath found at length a tongue to chide : O listen !” “I will speak no more : ---

Be silent, Pride!”

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 !

All heads must come

To the cold tomb, —
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.

JAMES SHIRLEY.

Art thou a Wretch of hope forlorn, The victim of consuming care ? Is thy distracted conscience torn

By fell despair ?

“A bruised reed he will not break;

O, SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S AMictions all his children feel ;

BLOOM!
He wounds them for his mercy's sake,
He wounds to heal. O, SNATCHED away in beauty's bloom !

On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; “There is a calm for those who weep,

But on thy turf shall roses rear A rest for weary Pilgrims found;

Their leaves, the earliest of the year, And while the mouldering ashes sleep And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom : Low in the ground,

And oft by yon blue gushing stream

Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, The Soul, of origin divine,

And feed deep thought with many a dream, God's glorious image, freed from clay, And lingering pause and lightly tread; In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine, Fond wretch ! as if her step disturbed the dead! A star of day.

Away! we know that tears are vain, “ The Sun is but a spark of fire,

That Death nor heeds nor hears distress : A transient meteor in the sky;

Will this unteach us to complain ?
The Soul, immortal as its Sire,

Or make one mourner weep the less ?
Shall never die."

And thou, who tell’st me to forget,
JAMES MONTGOMERY. Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

BYRON

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My Mary! dear departed shade !

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ?

ROBERT BURNS.

FOR ANNIE.

THANK Heaven ! the crisis,

The danger is past,
And the lingering illness

Is over at last,
And the fever called “Living"

Is conquered at last.

Sadly, I know,

I am shorn of my strength, And no muscle I move

As I lie at full length But no matter!- I feel

I am better at length.

And ah ! let it never

Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy

And narrow my bed ;
For man never slept

In a different bed, And, to sleep, you must slumber

In just such a bed. My tantalized spirit

Here blandly reposes, Forgetting, or never

Reyretting, its roses, Its old agitations

Of myrtles and roses : For now, while so quietly

Lying, it fancies A holier odor

About it, of pansies, A rosemary odor,

Commingled with pansies, With rue and the beautiful

Puritan pansies. And so it lies happily,

Bathing in many A dream of the truth

And the beauty of Annie, Drowned in a bath

Of the tresses of Annie. She tenderly kissed me,

She fondly caressed, And then I fell gently

To sleep on her breast, Deeply to sleep

From the heaven of her breast.

And I rest so composedly Now, in

my

bed, That any beholder

When the light was extinguished,

She covered me warm,
And she prayed to the angels

To keep me from harm, –
To the queen of the angels

To shield me from harm. And I lie so composedly

Now in my bed, (Knowing her love)

That you fancy me dead; And I rest so contentedly

Now in my bed, (With her love at my breast,)

That you fancy me dead,
That you shudder to look at me,

Thinking me dead :
But my heart it is brighter

Than all of the many
Stars in the sky;

For it sparkles with Annie,

From a spring but a very few

From a cavern not very far

Might fancy me dead,
Might start at beholding me,

Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning,

The sighing and sobbing, Are quieted now,

With that horrible throbbing At heart, – ah, that horrible,

Horrible throbbing !

The sickness, the nausea,

The pitiless pain,
Have ceased, with the fever

That maddened my brain,
With the fever called “Living"

That burned in my brain.

And 0, of all tortures

That torture the worst Has abated,

the terrible
Torture of thirst
For the napthaline river

Of Passion accurst !
I have drunk of a water

That quenches all thirst,
Of a water that flows
With a lullaby sound,

Feet ander ground,

Down under ground.

It glows with the light

Of the love of my Annie, With the thought of the light

Of the eyes of my Annie.

Yes, they 're ever bending o'er her

Eyes that weep; Forms, that to the cold grave bore her,

Vigils keep

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

When the summer moon is shining

Soft and fair, Friends she loved in tears are twining

Chaplets there.

THE FAIREST THING IN MORTAL EYES.

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[Addressed to his deceased wife, who died in childbed at the age of twenty-iwo.)

To make my lady's obsequies

My love a minster wrought,
And, in the chantry, service there

Was sung by doleful thought;
The tapers were of burning sighs,

That light and odor gave ;
And sorrows, painted o'er with tears,

Enluminéd her grave;
And round about, in quaintest guise,
Was carved : “ Within this tomb there lies
The fairest thing in mortal eyes."
Above her lieth spread a tomb

Of gold and sapphires blue :
The gold doth show her blessedness,

The sapphires mark her true ;
For blessedness and truth in her

Were livelily portrayed,
When gracious God with both his hands

Her goodly substance made.
He framed her in such wondrous wise,
She was, to speak without disguise,
The fairest thing in mortal eyes.
No more, no more ! my heart doth faint

When I the life recall
Of her who lived so free from taint,

So virtuous deemed by all,
That in herself was so complete

I think that she was ta'en
By God to deck his paradise,

And with his saints to reign ;
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;

Nor living wight long time may keep
The fairest thing in mortal eyes.

CHARLES, DUKE OF ORLEANS (French). Trans.

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lation of HENRY FRANCIS CARY.

DIRGE FOR A YOUNG GIRL.

UNDERNEATH the sod low-lying,

Dark and drear, Sleepeth one who left, in dying,

Sorrow here.

Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years !
I am so weary of toil and of tears,
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,
Take them, and give me my childhood again!

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