Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge The pilot of the Galilean lake; Two massy keys he bore of metals twain (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain); He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake: Creep and intrude and climb into the fold! And shove away the worthy bidden guest; Blind mouths ! that scarce themselves know how to hold What recks it them? What need they? They are sped; 1 But that two-handed engine at the door Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.' Return, Alphéus, the dread voice is past Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks; The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet, The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, And daffodillies fill their cups with tears To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies. Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise; Where the great Vision of the guarded mount - Look homeward, Angel now, and melt with ruth: — And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth! Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor; So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high Through the dear might of Him that walk'd the waves; With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills, While the still morn went out with sandals gray; He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay : And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills, And now was dropt into the western bay : At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue : To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new. J. Milton LXVII ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY M ORTALITY, behold and fear What a change of flesh is here! Think how many royal bones Sleep within these heaps of stones; Here they lie, had realms and lands, Here the bones of birth have cried ‘Though gods they were, as men they died !' Here are sands, ignoble things, Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings: Here's a world of pomp and state Buried in dust, once dead by fate. LXVIII F. Beaumont THE LAST CONQUEROR VICTO VICTORIOUS men of earth, no more Though you bind-in every shore And your triumphs reach as far As night or day, Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey And mingle with forgotten ashes, when Death calls ye to the crowd of common men. Devouring Famine, Plague, and War, Each able to undo mankind, Death's servile emissaries are; Nor to these alone confined, He hath at will More quaint and subtle ways to kill; A smile or kiss, as he will use the art, Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart. 7. Shirley LXIX DEATH THE LEVELLER Tare shadows, not substantial things; HE glories of our blood and state There is no armour against fate; Death lays his icy hand on kings: Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh 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: Your heads must come To the cold tomb; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. J. Shirley |