I wish my grave were growing green, On fair Kirconnell lea. I wish I were where Helen lies; Anon. CXXXVI THE TWA CORBIES As I was walking all alane I heard twa corbies making a mane; '-In behint yon auld fail dyke, 'His hound is to the hunting gane, 'Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane, We'll theek our nest when it grows bare. 'Mony a one for him makes mane, Anon. CXXXVII ON THE DEATH OF MR. WILLIAM HERVEY It was a dismal and a fearful night,— Scarce could the Morn drive on th' unwilling light, When sleep, death's image, left my troubled breast, By something liker death possest. My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow, And on my soul hung the dull weight Of some intolerable fate. What bell was that? Ah me! Too much I know! My sweet companion, and my gentle peer, Did not with more reluctance part Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say, Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade, Large was his soul; as large a soul as e'er High as the place 'twas shortly in Heaven to have, So high that all the virtues there did come Conspicuous, and great; So low that for me too it made a room. Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught, Whene'er the skilful youth discursed or writ, About his eloquent tongue; Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit. His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit, With as much zeal, devotion, piety, Which still in water sets at night, A. Cowley CXXXVIII FRIENDS IN PARADISE They are all gone into the world of light! And my sad thoughts doth clear : It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest, I see them walking in an air of glory, Whose light doth trample on my days: My days, which are at best but dull and hoary, Mere glimmering and decays. O holy Hope! and high Humility, High as the heavens above! These are your walks, and you have shew'd them me, To kindle my cold love. Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just, He that hath found some fledged bird's nest, may know At first sight, if the bird be flown; And yet, as Angels in some brighter dreams And into glory peep. H. Vaughan CXXXIX TO BLOSSOMS Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast? What, were ye born to be But you are lovely leaves, where we R. Herrick CXL TO DAFFODILS Fair Daffodils, we weep to see As yet the early-rising Sun Until the hasting day But to the even-song; We have short time to stay, as you, As quick a growth to meet decay We die, As your hours do, and dry Like to the Summer's rain; Or as the pearls of morning's dew Ne'er to be found again. R. Herrick |