VI. A LAND DIRGE. CALL for the robin-redbreast and the wren, The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm JOHN WEBSTER (15 -1654). VII. SOLDIERS' DIRGE. How sleep the brave, who sink to rest By fairy hands their knell is rung, WILLIAM COLLINS (1721-1756). VIII. ROSE AYLMER. АH! what avails the sceptred race, What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee. WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR (1775-1864). IX. A PAGAN EPITAPH. IN this marble buried lies Sweeter than Aurora's air, Chaster than the virgin spring, If such goodness live 'mongst men, ANON. X. BEREAVEMENT. SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways A maid whom there were none to praise, A violet by a mossy stone Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know. When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and O! The difference to me! WILLIAM WORDsworth (1770-1850). XI. EPITAPH ON MRS. MARGARET PASTON. So fair, so young, so innocent, so sweet, In her they met; but long they could not stay, JOHN DRYDEN (1631-1701). XII. EPITAPH ON THE EXCELLENT COUNTESS OF HUNTINGDON. THE chief perfection of both sexes joined, A wisdom of so large and potent sway, Rome's Senate might have wished, her Conclave may : LORD FALKLAND (1576–1633). XIII. ON THE RELIGIOUS MEMORY OF MRS. CATHERINE THOM SON, MY CHRISTIAN FRIEND. WHEN Faith and Love, which parted from thee never, Had ripened thy just soul to dwell with God, Meekly thou didst resign this earthly load Of death, called life; which us from life doth sever. Love led them on, and Faith, who knew them best, XIV. MARY. JOHN MILTON (1608-1674). IF I had thought thou could'st have died, I might not weep for thee; But I forgot, when by thy side, That thou could'st mortal be. It never through my mind had passed And I on thee should look my last, And still upon that face I look, And think 'twill smile again; And still the thought I will not brook But when I speak thou dost not say, What thou ne'er left'st unsaid; If thou would'st stay, e'en as thou art, All cold, and all serene I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been! |