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Each lovely scene shall thee restore,

For thee the tear be duly shed; Beloved till life can charm no more, And mourned till Pity's self be dead.

COLLINS.

Sleep with thy beauties here, while we Will show these garments made by

thee; These were the coats, in these are read The monuments of Dorcas dead: These were thy acts, and thou shalt

have These hung, as honors o'er thy grave, And after us, distressed,

Should fame be dumb,

Thy very tomb
Would cry out, Thou art blessed.

HERRICK.

DIRGE FOR DORCAS.

CORONACH.

COME pitie us, all ye who see
Our harps hung on the willow-tree;
Come pitie us, ye passers-by,
Who see or hear poor widows crie;
Come pitie us, and bring your eares
And eyes to pitie widows teares.
And when you are come hither,

Then we will keep

A fast, and weep Our eyes out all together, For Tabitha, who dead lies here, Clean washt, and laid out for the bier. O modest matrons, weep and waile! For now the corne and wine must

faile; The basket and the bynn of bread, Wherewith so many soules were fed, Stand empty here forever;

And ah! the poore,

At thy worne doore,
Shall be relieved never.

He is gone on the mountain,

He is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain,

When our need was the sorest. The fount, re-appearing,

From the raindrop shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering,

To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper

Takes the ears that are hoary; But the voice of the weeper

Wails manhood in glory. The autumn winds rushing

Waft the leaves that are searest; But our flower was in flushing

When blighting was nearest.

But ah, alas! the almond-bough
And olive-branch is withered now;
The wine-presse now is ta'en from

us, The saffron and the calamus; The spice and spiknard hence is

gone, The storax and the cynamon; The caroll of our gladnesse

Has taken wing,

And our late spring
Of mirth is turned to sadnesse.

Fleet foot on the correi,

Sage counsel in cumber, Red hand in the foray,

How sound is thy slumber! Like the dew on the mountain,

Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone, and forever!

SCOTT.

FEAR NO MORE THE HEAT

O'TH' SUN.

How wise wast thou in all thy waies!
How worthy of respect and praise !
How matron-like didst thou go drest!
How soberly above the rest
Of those that prank it with their

plumes, And jet it with their choice per

fumes! Thy vestures were not flowing;

Nor did the street

Accuse thy feet
Of mincing in their going.

FEAR no more the heat o' th' sun,

Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta’en thy

wages. Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

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A Power is passing from the earth To breathless Nature's dark abyss ; But when the great and good depart What is it more than this

That Man, who is from God sent

forth, Doth yet again to God return? Such ebb and flow must ever be, Thei) wherefore should we mourn ?

WORDSWORTH.

ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE

DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

Mourn for the man of long-enduring

blood, The statesman-warrior, moderate,

resolute, Whole in himself, a common good. Mourn for the man of amplest influ

ence, Yet clearest of ambitious crime, (our greatest yet with least pretence, Great in council and great in war, Foremost captain of his time, Rich in saving common-sense, And, as the greatest only are, In his simplicity sublime. O good gray head which all men

knew, O voice from which their omens all

men drew, O iron nerve to true occasion true, O fallen at length that tower of

strength Which stood four-square to all the

winds that blew ! Such was he whom we deplore. The long self-sacrifice of life is o’er. The great World-victor's victor will

be seen no more.

I.

BURY the Great Duke

With an empire's lamentation. Let us bury the Great Duke To the noise of the inourning of a

mighty nation, Mourning when their leaders fall, Warriors carry the warrior's pall, And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall.

II.

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Where shall we lay the man whom

we deplore? Here, in streaming London's central

roar. Let the sound of those he wrought

for, And the feet of those he fought for, Echo round his bones forevermore.

III.

Lead out the pageant: sad and slow,
As fits an universal woe,
Let the long long procession go,
And let the sorrowing crowd about

it grow, And let the mournful martial music

blow; The last great Englishman is low.

All is over and done:
Render thanks to the Giver,
England, for thy son.
Let the bell be tolled.
Render thanks to the Giver,
And render him to the mould.
Under the cross of gold
That shines over city and river,
There he shall rest forever
Among the wise and the bold.
Let the bell be tolled :
And a reverent people behold
The towering car, the sable steeds:
Bright let it be with its blazoned

deeds,
Dark in its funeral fold.
Let the bell be tolled :
And a deeper knell in the heart be

kuolled; And the sound of the sorrowing an

them rolled Thro’ the dome of the golden cross; And the volleying cannon thunder

his loss; He knew their voices of old. For many a time in many a clime His captain's-ear has heard them

boom Bellowing victory, bellowing doom:

IV.

Mourn, for to us he seems the last, Remembering all his greatness in the

Past. No more in soldier fashion will he

greet With lifted hand the gazer in the

street, O friends, our chief state-oracle is

mute:

When he with those deep voices

wrought, Guarding realms and kings from

shame; With those deep voices our dead cap

tain taught The tyrant, and asserts his claim In that dread sound to the great name, Which he has worn so pure of blame, In praise and in dispraise the same, A man of well-attempered frame. () civic muse, to such a name, To such a name for ages long, To such a name, Preserve a broad approach of fame, And ever-echoing avenues of song.

VI.

Who is he that cometh, like an hon

ored guest, With banner and with music, with

soldier and with priest, With a nation weeping, and breaking

on my rest? Mighty Seaman, this is he Was great by land as thou by sea. Thine island loves thee well, thou

famous man, The greatest sailor since our world

began. Now, to the roll of musled drums, To thee the greatest soldier comes; For this is he Was great by land as thou by sea; His foes were thine; he kept us free; O give him welcome, this is he Worthy of our gorgeous rites, And worthy to be laid by thee; For this is England's greatest son, He that gained a hundred fights, Nor ever lost an English gun; This is he that far away Against the myriads of Assaye Clashed with his fiery few and won; And underneath another sun, Warring on a later day, Round affrighted Lisbon drew The treble works, the vast designs Of his labored rampart-lines, Where he greatly stood at bay, Whence he issued forth anew, And ever great and greater grew, Beating from the wasted vines Back to France her banded swarms, Back to France with countless blows, Till o'er the hills her eagles flew Beyond the Pyrenean pines,

Followed up in valley and glen
With blare of bugle, clamor of men,
Roll of cannon and clash of arms,
And England pouring on her foes.
Such a war had such a close.
Again their ravening eagle rose
In anger, wheeled on Europe-shadow-

ing wings, And barking for the thrones of kings; Till one that sought but Duty's iron

crown On that loud sabbath shook the

spoiler down; A day of onsets of despair! Dashed on every rocky square Their surging charges foamed them

selves away; Last, the Prussian trumpet blew; Through the long-tormented air Heaven flashed a sudden jubilant ray, And down we swept and charged

and overthrew. So great a soldier taught us there, What long-enduring hearts could do In that world-earthquake, Waterloo ! Mighty Seaman, tender and true, And pure as he from taint of craven

guile, O saviour of the silver-coasted isle, () shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, If aught of things that here befall Touch a spirit among things divine, If love of country move thee there

at all, Be glad, because his bones are laid by

thine! And thro’ the centuries let a people's

voice In full acclaim, A people's voice, The proof and echo of all human

fame, A people's voice, when they rejoice At civic revel and pomp and game, Attest their great commander's

claim With honor, honor, honor, honor to

him, Eternal honor to his name.

VII.

Remember him who led your hosts; He bade you guard the sacred coasts. Your cannons moulder on the sea

ward wall; His voice is silent in your council

hall

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