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jK CXLV

THE HAPPY DEAD

>r-p IS folly all that can be said,
J- By living mortals, of the immortal dead.
'T is as if we who stay behind
In expectation of the wind,
Should pity those who passed this strait before,

And touch the universal shore.
Ah, happy man, who art to sail no more!

A. Cowley

EPITAPH UPON HUSBAND AND WIFE
Who died and were buried together

TO these, whom death again did wed,
This grave's the second marriage bed,
For though the hand of fate could force
'Twixt soul and body a divorce,
It could not sever man and wife,
Because they both lived but one life.
Peace, good reader, do not weep,
Peace, the lovers are asleep!
They (sweet turtles) folded lie,
In the last knot love could tie.
Let them sleep] let them sleep on,
Till this stormy night be gone,
And the eternal morrow dawn;
Then the curtains will be drawn,
And they wake into a light,
Whose day shall never end in night.

K. Crashaw

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ADDISON

WHAT mourner ever felt poetic fires?
Slow comes the verse that real love inspires:
Grief unaffected suits but ill with art,
Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart.
Can I forget the dismal night that gave
My soul's best part forever to the grave!
How silent did his old companions tread,
By midnight lamps the mansions of the dead;
Through breathing statues, then unheeded things,
Through rows of warriors, and through walks of kings!
What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire;
The pealing organ, and the pausing choir;
The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid;
And the last words that dust to dust conveyed!
While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend,
Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend.
O, gone forever! take this long adieu;
And sleep in peace next thy loved Montague.
Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone,
Sad luxury to vulgar minds unknown,
Along the walls, where speaking marbles show
What worthies form the hallowed mould below;
Proud names, who once the reins of empire held;
In arms who triumphed; or in arts excelled;
Chiefs grand with scars, and prodigal of blood;
Stern patriots who for sacred freedom stood.
Just men by whom imperial laws were given,
And saints who taught, and led the way to heaven.

Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest,
Since their foundation, came a nobler guest;
Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss conveyed
A fairer spirit, or more welcome shade.

Tickdl

CXLVIII

SUSPIRIA

TAKE them, O Death! and bear away
Whatever thou canst call thine own!
Thine image, stamped upon this clay,
Doth give thee that, but that alone!

Take them, O Grave! and let them lie
Folded upon thy narrow shelves,

As garments by the soul laid by,
And precious only to ourselves!

Take them, O great Eternity!

Our little life is but a gust,
That bends the branches of thy tree,

And trails its blossoms in the dust.

H. W. Longfellow

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CXLIX

LADY MARY

THOU wert fair, Lady Mary,
As the lily in the sun;
And fairer yet thou mightest be,—

Thy youth was but begun:
Thine eye was soft and glancing,

Of the deep bright blue;
And on the heart thy gentle words
Fell lighter than the dew.

They found thee, Lady Mary,

With thy palms upon thy breast,
Even as thou hadst been praying

At thy hour of rest:
The cold pale moon was shining

On thy cold pale cheek;
And the morn of the Nativity

Had just begun to break.

They carved thee, Lady Mary,

All of pure white stone,
With thy palms upon thy breast,

In the chancel all alone:
And I saw thee when the winter moon

Played on thy marble cheek, When the morn of the Nativity

Had just begun to break.

But thou kneelest, Lady Mary,
With thy palms upon thy breast,

Among the perfect spirits

In the land of rest:
Thou art even as they took thee

At thine hour of prayer,
Save the glory that is on thee

From the sun that shineth there.

We shall see thee, Lady Mary,

On that shore unknown, A pure and happy angel

In the presence of the Throne; We shall see thee when the light Divine

Plays freshly on thy cheek, And the Resurrection morning

Hath just begun to break.

H. Alford

CL

MY BROTHER'S GRAVE

T)ENEATH the chancel's hallowed stone,
-U Exposed to every rustic tread,—
To few, save rustic mourners known,—

My brother, is thy lowly bed.
Few words upon the rough stone graven

Thy name, thy birth, thy youth declare,— Thy innocence, thy hopes of Heaven,—

In simplest phrase recorded there:
No scutcheons shine, no banners wave
In mockery o'er my brother's grave.
The place is silent,— rarely sound
Is heard those ancient walls around;

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