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Then steal away, give little warning,
Choose thine own time;
Say not Good-night,— but in some brighter clime Bid me Good-morning.
ALAS! how easily things go wrong-
ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD.
Alas! how hardly things go right —
For the sigh will come, and the kiss will stay,
- GEORGE MACDONALD.
THEY die -the dead return not. Misery
Sits near an open grave, and calls them over,
A youth with hoary hair and haggard eye.
They are the names of kindred, friend, and lover, Which he so feebly calls. They all are gone, Fond wretch, all dead! Those vacant names alone, This most familiar scene, my pain, These tombs, alone remain.
Misery, my sweetest friend, oh! weep no more!
- PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
O SORROW, Sorrow, say where dost thou dwell?
In the lowest room of hell.
Art thou born of human race?
No, no, I have a furier face.
Art thou in city, town, or court?
Oh, why into the world is sorrow sent?
Men afflicted best repent.
What dost thou feed on?
What tak'st thou pleasure in?
To sigh, to sob, to pine, to groan,
Oh, when, oh, when shall sorrow quiet have?
Never, never, never, never.
Never till she finds a grave.
- SAMUEL ROWLEY.
THE glories of our blood and state
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant with 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,
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.
TO LIFE'S PILGRIM.
FLY from the press, and dwell with soothfastness;
That thee is sent receive in buxomness:
The wrestling of this world, asketh a fall. Here is no home, here is but wilderness.
Forth, pilgrim, forth - on, best out of thy stall; Look up on high, and thank the God of all! Weivith thy lust, and let thy ghost thee lead, And Truth thee shalt deliver - 'tis no drede.
EVEN Such is time, that takes in trust
No. 1. MAN'S MORTALITY. First published in the second edition of Wastell's Microbiblion, 1629. There are doubts concerning its authorship. 1. 6. gourd which Jonas had. See Jonah, iv.
No. 4. THE RETREAT. "This poem, apart from its proper beauty, has a deeper interest, as containing in the germ Wordsworth's still higher strain, namely, his Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood. I proceeded in my first edition to say, 'I do not mean that Wordsworth had ever seen this poem when he wrote his own. The coincidences are so remarkable that it is certainly difficult to esteem them accidental; but Wordsworth was so little a reader of anything out of the way, and at the time when his Ode was composed, the Silex Scintillans was altogether out of the way, a book of such excessive rarity, that an explanation of the points of contact between the poems must be sought for elsewhere.' That this was too rashly spoken I have since had proof. A correspondent, with date July 13, 1869, has written to me, 'I have a copy of the first edition of the Silex, incomplete and very much dampstained, which I bought in a lot with several other books at the poet Wordsworth's sale.' The entire forgetfulness into which poetry, which, though not of the very highest order of all, is yet of a very high one, may fall, is strikingly exemplified in the fact that as nearly as possible two centuries intervened between the first and second editions of Vaughan's poems. The first edition of the first part of the Silex Scintillans appeared in 1650, the second edition of the book in 1847. That which is sometimes referred to as a second edition, bearing date 1655, is indeed only the first, with a new title-page and preface, and some eighty-four pages of additional matter. Oblivion overtook him from the first. Phillips in his Theatrum Poetarum, 1675, just mentions him and no more; and knows him only by his Olor Iscanus, a juvenile production, of comparatively little worth; which yet, seeing that it yields such lines as the following — they form part of a poem addressed to the unfortunate Elizabeth of Bohemia, daughter of our first James - cannot be affirmed to be of none :
'Thou seem'st a rosebud born in snow;