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5

Sceptre and crown

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
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

IO

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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.

James Shirley.

LVIII

LINES WRITTEN BY ONE IN THE TOWER, BEING

YOUNG AND CONDEMNED TO DIE.

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares ;

My feast of joy is but a dish of pain ;
My crop of corn is but a field of tares;

And all my good is but vain hope of gain :
The day is [fled], and yet I saw no sun ;
And now I live, and now my life is done !

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The spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung ;

The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green;

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My youth is gone, and yet I am but young;

I saw the world, and yet I was not seen :
My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun;
And now I live, and now my life is done!
I sought my death, and found it in my womb;

I looked for life, and saw it was a shade;
I trod the earth, and knew it was my tomb; 15

And now I die, and now I am but made : The glass is full, and now my glass is run; And now I live, and now my life is done!

Chidiock Tychborn.

LIX

LINES WRITTEN THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS

EXECUTION.

E'en such is time ; which takes on trust

Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with earth and dust;

Which in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days :
But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
My God shall raise me up, I trust.

Sir Walter Raleigh.

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LX

SONNET.

Most glorious Lord of life, that on this day
Didst make thy triumph over death and sin,
And, having harrowed hell, didst bring away
Captivity thence captive, us to win;
This joyous day, dear Lord, with joy begin,
And grant that we, for whom Thou diddest die,
Being with thy dear blood clean washed from sin,

5

IO

May live for ever in felicity :
And that thy love we weighing worthily,
May likewise love Thee for the same again;
And for thy sake, that alllike dear didst buy,
With love may one another entertain.
So let us love, dear Love, like as we ought;
Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught.

Edmund Spenser.

LXI

THE HEAVENLY JERUSALEM.

Jerusalem, my happy home,
When shall I come to thee ?
When shall my sorrows have an end,
Thy joys when shall I see?

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O happy harbour of the saints !
O sweet and pleasant soil !
In thee no sorrow may be found,
No grief, no care, no toil.

In thee no sickness may be seen,
Nor hurt, nor ache, nor sore;
There is no death, nor ugly dole,
But Life for evermore.

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15

There lust and lucre cannot dwell,
There envy bears no sway;
There is no hunger, heat, nor cold,
But pleasure every way.
Thy walls are made of precious stones,
Thy bulwarks diamonds square;
Thy gates are of right orient pearl,
Exceeding rich and rare.

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Thy turrets and thy pinnacles
With carbuncles do shine ;
Thy very streets are paved with gold,
Surpassing clear and fine.
Thy houses are of ivory,
Thy windows crystal clear ;
Thy tiles are made of beaten gold;-
O God, that I were there !
Ah, my sweet home, Jerusalem,
Would God I were in thee!
Would God my woes were at an end,
Thy joys that I might see!
Thy saints are crowned with glory great;
They see God face to face ;
They triumph still, they still rejoice,
Most happy is their case.

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We that are here in banishment
Continually do moan,
We sigh, and sob, we weep and wail,
Perpetually we groan.
Our sweet is mixed with bitter gall,
Our pleasure is but pain,
Our joys scarce last the looking on,
Our sorrows still remain.
But there they live in such delight,
Such pleasure and such play,
As that to them a thousand years
Doth seem as yesterday.
Thy gardens and thy gallant walks
Continually are green ;
There grow such sweet and pleasant flowers
As nowhere else are seen.

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Quite through the streets, with silver sound,
The flood of Life doth flow;
Upon whose banks on every side
The wood of Life doth grow.
There trees for evermore bear fruit,
And evermore do spring;
There evermore the angels sit,
And evermore do sing.

60

Jerusalem, my happy home,
Would God I were in thee!
Would God my woes were at an end,
Thy joys that I might see!

Anon.

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