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Loved daughter, sister, friend: we saw awhile

Thy meek-eyed modesty which loved the shade, Thy faithfulness which knew nor change, nor guile,

Thy heart like incense on God's altar laid.

But He whose spirit breathes the air divine,

That gives to souls their loveliness and grace, Soonest embowers pure faithful hearts like thine In His own Paradise, their blissful place.

John Davison


THE HAPPY DEAD 'Tis folly all that can be said, By living mortals, of the immortal dead.

'Tis as if we who stay behind

In expectation of the wind,
Should pity those who pass'd this strait before

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

A. Cowley


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.

R. Crashaw

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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 for ever 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-rob'd prelate paid ; And the last words that dust to dust convey'd ! While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend, Accept these tears thou dear departed friend.

O, gone for ever! take this long adieu ;
And sleep in peace next thy lov'd 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 hallow'd mould below
Proud names, who once the reins of empire held
In arms who triumph'd ; or in arts excell'd ;
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 convey'd
A fairer spirit, or more welcome shade.


Take them, O Death ! and bear away

Whatever thou canst call thine own!
Thine irnage, stamp'd upon this clay,

Doth give thee that, but that alone !
Take them, Ó 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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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

Play'd 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

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Beneath the chancel's hallow'd stone,

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 declareThy innocence, thy hopes of Heaven

In simplest phrase recorded there : No scutcheons shine, no banners wave In mockery o'er my brother's grave.

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