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ACCEPT, thou shrine of my dead saint,
Quite melted into tears for thee.
Dear loss! since thy untimely fate, My task hath been to meditate On thee, on thee; thou art the book, The library whereon I look, Though almost blind; for thee (loved clay) I languish out, not live, the day, Using no other exercise But what I practice with mine eyes ; By which wet glasses I find out How lazily Time creeps about To one that mourns: this, only this, My exercise and business is : So I compute the weary hours With sighs dissolved into showers.
But woe is me! the longest date Too narrow is to calculate These empty hopes: never shall I Be so much blest as to descry A glimpse of thee, till that day come Which shall the earth to cinders doom, And a fierce fever must calcine The body of this world like thine, (My little world !): that fit of fire Once off, our bodies shall aspire To our souls' bliss: then we shall rise, And view ourselves with clearer eyes In that calm region where no night Can hide us from each other's sight.
Nor wonder if my time go thus Backward and most preposterous; Thou hast benighted me; thy set. This eve of blackness did beget, Who wast my day (though overcast Before thou hadst thy noontide passed), And I remember must in tears Thou scarce hadst seen so many years As day tells hours: by thy clear sun My love and fortune first did run:
Meantime thou hast her, Earth: much good May my harm do thee! Since it stood With Heaven's will I might not call Her longer mine, I give thee all My short-lived right and interest In her whom living I loved best. With a most free and bounteous grief I give thee what I could not keep. Be kind to her, and, prithee, look Thou write into thy doomsday book Each parcel of this rarity Which in thy casket shrined doth lie. See that thou make thy reckoning straight, And yield her back again by weight: For thou must audit on thy trust Each grain and atom of this dust,
Gane were but the Winter Cauld.
As thou wilt answer Him that lent,
GANE were but the winter cauld,
And gane were but the snaw, I could sleep in the wild woods,
Where primroses blaw.
Cauld 's the snaw at my head,
And cauld at my feet, And the finger o’ death's at my een,
Closing them to sleep.
Sleep on, my love, in thy cold bed
Thus from the sun my bottom steers,
Let nane tell my father,
Or my mither sae dear ;
Oh! Snatched away in Beauty's Bloom.
OH! snatched away in beauty's bloom,
But on thy turf shall roses rear
Their leaves, the earliest of the year;
And oft by yon blue gushing stream
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
And lingering pause and lightly tread
'Tis true, with shame and grief I yield; Thou, like the van, first took'st the field, And gotten hast the victory, In thus adventuring to die Before me, whose more years might crave A just precedence in the grave. But hark! my pulse, like a soft drum, Beats my approach, tells thee I come ; And, slow howe'er my marches be, I shall at last sit down by thee.
Away! we know that tears are vain,
That Death nor heeds nor hears distress:
Or make one mourner weep the less !
The thought of this bids me go on,
He is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest, Like a summer-dried fountain,
When our need was the sorest.
No, no! our maiden pleasures be
Or if we have
And set it round with celandine,
We'll set it round with celandine,
And nodding heads of columbine ! And let the ruddock build his nest Just above my true-love's breast !
The ruddock he shall build his nest
Just above thy true-love's breast ! And warble his sweet wintry song O'er our dwelling all day long!
And he shall warble his sweet song
O’er your dwelling all day long. Now, tender friends, my garments take, And lay me out for Jesus' sake!
And we will now thy garments take,
And lay thee out for Jesus' sake!
We'll lay thee by thy true-love's side,
May no wolfe howle, or screech-owle stir
To starve or wither
Male incense burn
When I am dead, and buried be,
Now thou art dead, we'll bury thee,