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ACCEPT, thou shrine of my dead saint,
Instead of dirges, this complaint ;
And for sweet flowers to crown thy hearse
Receive a strew of weeping verse
From thy grieved friend, whom thou might'st

see

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,
Not gave thee, my dear monument.
So close the ground, and 'bout her shade
Black curtains draw: my bride is laid.

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
Never to be disquieted!
My last good-night! Thou wilt not wake
Till I thy fate shall overtake:
Till age or grief, or sickness must
Marry my body to that dust
It so much loves, and fill the room
My heart keeps empty in thy tomb.
Stay for me there: I will not fail
To meet thee in that hollow vale.
And think not much of my delay;
I am already on the way,
And follow thee with all the speed
Desire can make, or sorrows breed.
Each minute is a short degree,
And every hour a step towards thee.
At night when I betake to rest,
Next morn I rise nearer my west
Of life, almost by eight hours' sail,
Than when Sleep breathed his drowsy gale.

Thus from the sun my bottom steers,
And my day's compass downward bears:
Nor labor I to stem the tide
Through which to thee I swiftly glide.

Let nane tell my father,

Or my mither sae dear ;
I'll meet them baith in heaven
At the spring o' the year.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

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Oh! Snatched away in Beauty's Bloom.

OH! snatched away in beauty's bloom,
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;

But on thy turf shall roses rear

Their leaves, the earliest of the year;
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom.

And oft by yon blue gushing stream

Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
And feed deep thought with many a dream,

And lingering pause and lightly tread
Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the dead.

'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:
Will this unteach us to complain ?

Or make one mourner weep the less !
And thou, who tell'st me to forget,
Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

LORD BYRON.

Coronach.

The thought of this bids me go on,
And wait my dissolution
With hope and comfort. Dear (forgive
The crime), I am content to live,
Divided, with but half a heart,
Till we shall meet and never part.

HENRY KING.

He is gone on the mountain,

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

When our need was the sorest.

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No, no! our maiden pleasures be
Wrapt in the winding-sheet with thee;
'Tis we are dead, though not i' th' grave;

Or if we have
One seed of life left, 'tis to keep
A Lent for thee, to fast and weep.
Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice,
And make this place all paradise ;
May sweets grow here, and smoke from hence

Fat frankincense;
Let balme and cassia send their scent
From out thy maiden monument.

And set it round with celandine,
And nodding heads of columbine !

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!
And lay me by my true-love's side,
That I may be a faithful bride!

We'll lay thee by thy true-love's side,
That thou may'st be a faithful bride!

May no wolfe howle, or screech-owle stir
A wing about thy sepulchre ;
No boysterous winds or storms come hither,

To starve or wither
Thy soft sweet earth; but, like a spring,
Love keep it ever flourishing.
May all shie maids, at wonted hours,
Come forth to strew thy tombe with flowers;
May virgins, when they come to mourn,

Male incense burn
Upon thine altar; then return,
And leave thee sleeping in thy urn.

ROBERT HERRICK.

When I am dead, and buried be,
Pray to God in heaven for me!

Now thou art dead, we'll bury thee,
And pray to God in heaven for thee!

Benedicite!
WILLIAM STANLEY ROSCOE.

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