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THE DEAD COACH

Ar night when sick folk wakeful lie,
I heard the dead coach passing by,
And heard it passing wild and fleet,
And knew my time was come not yet.

Click-clack, click-clack, the hoofs went past,
Who takes the dead coach travels fast,
On and away through the wild night,
The dead must rest ere morning light.

If one might follow on its track
The coach and horses, midnight black,
Within should sit a shape of doom
That beckons one and all to come.

God pity them to-night who wait
To hear the dead coach at their gate,
And him who hears, though sense be dim,
The mournful dead coach stop for him.

He shall go down with a still face,
And mount the steps and take his place,
The door be shut, the order said!
How fast the pace is with the dead!

Click-clack, click-clack, the hour is chill, The dead coach climbs the distant hill. Now, God, the Father of all us,

Wipe Thou the widow's tears that fall!

Katharine Tynan [1861

L'ENVOI

WHERE are the loves that we loved before, When once we are alone, and shut the door? No matter whose the arms that held me fast, The arms of Darkness hold me at the last.

No matter down what primrose path I tend,
I kiss the lips of Silence in the end.
No matter on what heart found delight,
I come again unto the breast of Night.
No matter when or how Love did befall,
'Tis loneliness that loves me best of all.
And in the end she claims me, and I know
That she will stay, though all the rest may go.
No matter whose the eyes that I would keep
Near in the dark, 'tis in the eyes of Sleep
That I must look and look forevermore,
When once I am alone and shut the door.
Willa Sibert Cather [1875-

DEATH

I AM the key that parts the gates of Fame;
I am the cloak that covers cowering Shame;
I am the final goal of every race;

I am the storm-tossed spirit's resting-place:

The messenger of sure and swift relief,
Welcomed with wailings and reproachful grief;
The friend of those that have no friend but me,
I break all chains, and set all captives free.

I am the cloud that, when Earth's day is done,
An instant veils an unextinguished sun;

I am the brooding hush that follows strife,
The waking from a dream that Man calls-Life!
Florence Earle Coates [1850-

A DIRGE

From "The White Devil'

CALL for the robin-redbreast and the wren,

Since o'er shady groves they hover,

And with leaves and flowers do cover

The friendless bodies of unburied men.

Call unto his funeral dole

The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole,

To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm,

And (when gay tombs are robbed) sustain no harm; But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,

For with his nails he'll dig them up again.

John Webster [1580?-1625?]

DIRGE

From "Cymbeline"

FEAR no more the heat o' the 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.

Fear no more the frown o' the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat;

To thee the reed is as the oak:
The scepter, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning-flash

Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

William Shakespeare [1564-1616]

DIRGE IN CYMBELINE

Sung by Guiderus and Arviragus over Fidele, supposed to be dead

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring

Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom,

And rifle all the breathing spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear,
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;
But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

No withered witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew;
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew.

The redbreast oft at evening hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gathered flowers,

To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds, and beating rain,

In tempests shake the sylvan cell,

Or midst the chase on every plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell,

Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed:
Beloved, till life could charm no more;
And mourned, till Pity's self be dead.

William Collins [1721-1759]

HALLOWED GROUND

WHAT'S hallowed ground? Has earth a clod

Its Maker meant not should be trod

By man, the image of his God,

Erect and free,

Unscourged by Superstition's rod

To bow the knee?

That's hallowed ground where, mourned and missed,

The lips repose our love has kissed;

But where's their memory's mansion? Is't

Yon churchyard's bowers?

No! in ourselves their souls exist,

A part of ours.

A kiss can consecrate the ground

Where mated hearts are mutual bound:

The spot where love's first links were wound,
That ne'er are riven,

Is hallowed down to earth's profound,
And up to Heaven!

For time makes all but true love old;

The burning thoughts that then were told
Run molten still in memory's mold;

And will not cool

Until the heart itself be cold
In Lethe's pool.

What hallows ground where heroes sleep?
"Tis not the sculptured piles you heap!
In dews that heavens far distant weep
Their turf may bloom;

Or Genii twine beneath the deep
Their coral tomb.

But strew his ashes to the wind

Whose sword or voice has served mankind,

And is he dead, whose glorious mind

Lifts thine on high?—

To live in hearts we leave behind

Is not to die.

Is't death to fall for Freedom's right?
He's dead alone that lacks her light!

And murder sullies in Heaven's sight

The sword he draws:

What can alone ennoble fight?

A noble cause!

Give that!-and welcome War to brace

Her drums! and rend Heaven's reeking space!

The colors planted face to face,

The charging cheer,

Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase

Shall still be dear.

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