THE DEAD COACH Ar night when sick folk wakeful lie, Click-clack, click-clack, the hoofs went past, If one might follow on its track God pity them to-night who wait He shall go down with a still face, Click-clack, click-clack, the hour is chill, The dead coach climbs the distant hill. Now, God, the Father of all us, Wipe Thou the widow's tears that fall! Katharine Tynan [1861 L'ENVOI WHERE are the loves that we loved before, When once we are alone, and shut the door? No matter whose the arms that held me fast, The arms of Darkness hold me at the last. No matter down what primrose path I tend, DEATH I AM the key that parts the gates of Fame; I am the storm-tossed spirit's resting-place: The messenger of sure and swift relief, I am the cloud that, when Earth's day is done, I am the brooding hush that follows strife, A DIRGE From "The White Devil' CALL for the robin-redbreast and the wren, Since o'er shady groves they hover, And with leaves and flowers do cover The friendless bodies of unburied men. Call unto his funeral dole The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole, To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm, And (when gay tombs are robbed) sustain no harm; But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men, For with his nails he'll dig them up again. John Webster [1580?-1625?] DIRGE From "Cymbeline" FEAR no more the heat o' the sun Thou thy worldly task hast done, Fear no more the frown o' the great, To thee the reed is as the oak: Fear no more the lightning-flash Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; William Shakespeare [1564-1616] DIRGE IN CYMBELINE Sung by Guiderus and Arviragus over Fidele, supposed to be dead To fair Fidele's grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing spring. No wailing ghost shall dare appear, And melting virgins own their love. No withered witch shall here be seen, The redbreast oft at evening hours To deck the ground where thou art laid. When howling winds, and beating rain, In tempests shake the sylvan cell, Or midst the chase on every plain, The tender thought on thee shall dwell, Each lonely scene shall thee restore, William Collins [1721-1759] HALLOWED GROUND WHAT'S hallowed ground? Has earth a clod Its Maker meant not should be trod By man, the image of his God, Erect and free, Unscourged by Superstition's rod To bow the knee? That's hallowed ground where, mourned and missed, The lips repose our love has kissed; But where's their memory's mansion? Is't Yon churchyard's bowers? No! in ourselves their souls exist, A part of ours. A kiss can consecrate the ground Where mated hearts are mutual bound: The spot where love's first links were wound, Is hallowed down to earth's profound, For time makes all but true love old; The burning thoughts that then were told And will not cool Until the heart itself be cold What hallows ground where heroes sleep? Or Genii twine beneath the deep But strew his ashes to the wind Whose sword or voice has served mankind, And is he dead, whose glorious mind Lifts thine on high?— To live in hearts we leave behind Is not to die. Is't death to fall for Freedom's right? And murder sullies in Heaven's sight The sword he draws: What can alone ennoble fight? A noble cause! Give that!-and welcome War to brace Her drums! and rend Heaven's reeking space! The colors planted face to face, The charging cheer, Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase Shall still be dear. |