For reasons not to love him once I sought, To vex myself and him: I now would give Who lately lived for me, and when he found He hid his face amid the shades of death. I waste for him my breath Who wasted his for me; but mine returns, With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years Merciful God! Such was his latest prayer, These may she never share! Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold, Than daisies in the mold, Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate, His name and life's brief date. Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be, And, oh! pray too for me! Walter Savage Lander [1775-1864] "SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND" SHE is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, He had lived for his love, for his country he died, On a Picture by Poussin Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, 1079 They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West, From her own loved island of sorrow. Thomas Moore [1779-1852] "AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT" AT the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly And tell me our love is remembered even in the sky. Then I sing the wild song 'twas once such rapture to hear, Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear. Thomas Moore [1779-1852] ON A PICTURE BY POUSSIN REPRESENTING SHEPHERDS IN ARCADIA Ан, happy youths, ah, happy maid, Snatch present pleasure while ye may; Or listless lie by yonder stream, And muse and watch the ripples play, To make our years go smiling by. Sing, shepherds, sing; sweet lady, listen; With happy tears her bright eyes glisten, The voice she loved has long been still; John Addington Symonds [1840-1893] THRENODY THERE'S a grass-grown road from the valley A winding road and steep That leads to the quiet hill-top, Where lies your love asleep. ... While mine is lying, God knows where, A hundred fathoms deep. I saw you kneel at a grave-side— Wrapped in the tender starlight, But through all dreams and starlight, The breakers call to me. Oh, steep is your way to Silence— Who lies so far from home. Ruth Guthrie Harding [1882 STRONG AS DEATH O DEATH, when thou shalt come to me "I Shall Not Cry Return Come not, O Death, with hollow tone, Than in thy desolate, doubtful land; But with that sweet and subtle scent As with all things she brushed was blent); With the dim gold that lit her hair, And through my chilling veins shall flame And I will follow thee, O Death. 1081 Henry Cuyler Bunner [1855-1896] "I SHALL NOT CRY RETURN" I SHALL not cry Return! Return! I shall be lonesome-I shall miss Your hand, your voice, your smile, your kiss. Not often shall I speak your name, For what would strangers care That once a sudden tempest came Not always shall this parting be, For though I travel slow, I, too, may claim eternity The opening of the outer gate. Ellen M. H. Gates [1835 "OH! SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM" OH! snatched away in beauty's bloom, On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; Their leaves, the earliest of the year; And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom: And oft by yon blue gushing stream Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the dead! Away! we know that tears are vain, Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. George Gordon Byron [1788–1824] TO MARY IF I had thought thou couldst have died, I might not weep for thee; That thou couldst mortal be: It never through my mind had passed And thou shouldst smile no more! |