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190

TO HIS DEAD LOVE,

TO HIS DEAD LOVE.

TELL me, thou soul of her I love,
Ah! tell me, whither art thou fled;
To what delightful world above,
Appointed for the happy dead?

Or dost thou, free, at pleasure, roam,
And sometimes share thy lover's woe;
Where, void of thee, his cheerless home
Can now, alas! no comfort know?

Oh! if thou hover'st round my walk,
While, under every well-known tree,

I to thy fancy'd shadow talk,

And every tear is full of thee;

Should then the weary eye of grief,
Beside some sympathetic stream,
In slumber find a short relief,
Oh, visit thou my soothing dream!

James Thomson.

FRIENDS DEPARTED.

191

FRIENDS DEPARTED.

THEY are all gone into the world of light!
And I alone sit ling'ring here!
Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth clear.

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast
Like stars upon some gloomy grove,

Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest
After the Sun's remove.

I see them walking in an air of glory,
Whose light doth trample on my days;
My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,
Mere glimmering and decays.

O holy Hope! and high Humility!

High as the Heavens above!

These are your walks, and you have shew'd them me
To kindle my cold love.

Dear, beauteous death; the Jewel of the Just!

Shining no where but in the dark;

What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,

Could man outlook that mark!

192

FRIENDS DEPARTED.

He that hath found some fledg'd bird's nest may know

At first sight if the bird be flown;

But what fair dell or grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.

And yet, as Angels in some brighter dreams
Call to the soul when man doth sleep,

So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,
And into glory peep.

If a star were confin'd into a tomb,

Her captive flames must needs burn there;
But when the hand that lock'd her up gives room,
She'll shine through all the sphere.

O Father of eternal life, and all

Created glories under thee!

Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall
Into true liberty!

Either disperse these mists which blot and fill
My perspective still as they pass;

Or else remove me hence unto that hill

Where I shall need no glass,

H. Vaughan.

THE DYING MAN IN HIS GARDEN.

193

THE DYING MAN IN HIS GARDEN.

WHY, Damon, with the forward day
Dost thou thy little spot survey,

From tree to tree, with doubtful cheer,
Pursue the progress of the year,
What winds arise, what rains descend,
When thou before that year shalt end?

What do thy noontide walks avail,
To clear the leaf, and pick the snail,
Then wantonly to death decree
An insect usefuller than thee?
Thou and the worm are brother-kind,
As low, as earthy, and as blind.

Vain wretch! canst thou expect to see
The downy peach make court to thee?
Or that thy sense shall ever meet
The bean-flower's deep-embosom'd sweet
Exhaling with an evening blast?
Thy evenings then will all be past!

Thy narrow pride, thy fancied green
(For vanity's in little seen),
All must be left when Death appears,
In spite of wishes, groans, and tears;
Nor one of all thy plants that grow,
But Rosemary, will with thee go.

George Sewell.

Elder Poets.

13

194

THE WISDOM OF AGE.

THE WISDOM OF AGE.

THE seas are quiet when the winds give o’er
So calm are we when passions are no more.
For then we know how vain it was to boast
Of fleeting things, too certain to be lost.
Clouds of affection from our younger eyes
Conceal that emptiness which age descries.

The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd,
Lets in new light through chinks that time has made;
Stronger by weakness, wiser men become

As they draw near to their eternal home.
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view,
That stand upon the threshold of the new.

E. Waller.

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