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A Bridal Dirge

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,
When they promise a glorious morrow;

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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
To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye;
And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air
To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me
there,

And tell me our love is remembered even in the sky.

Then I sing the wild song 'twas once such rapture to hear,
When our voices commingling breathed like one on the ear;

And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,
I think, O my love! 'tis thy voice from the Kingdom of
Souls

Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.
Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

A BRIDAL DIRGE

WEAVE no more the marriage chain!

All unmated is the lover;
Death has ta'en the place of Pain;
Love doth call on love in vain:

Life and years of hope are over!

No more want of marriage bell!
No more need of bridal favor!
Where is she to wear them well?
You beside the lover, tell!

Gone-with all the love he gave her!

Paler than the stone she lies:

Colder than the winter's morning!

Wherefore did she thus despise

(She with pity in her eyes)

Mother's care, and lover's warning?

Youth and beauty,-shall they not

Last beyond a brief to-morrow?

No: a prayer and then forgot!

This the truest lover's lot;

This the sum of human sorrow!

Bryan Waller Procter [1787-1874]

"OH! SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM"

OH! snatched away in beauty's bloom,

On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
But on thy turf shall roses rear

Their leaves, the earliest of the year;

And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:

And oft by yon blue gushing stream
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
And feed deep thought with many a dream,
And lingering pause and lightly tread;
Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the dead!

Away! we know that tears are vain,
That Death nor heeds nor hears distress:
Will this unteach us to complain?
Or make one mourner weep the less?
And thou, who tell'st me to forget,
Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

George Gordon Byron [1788–1824]

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IF I had thought thou couldst have died,

I might not weep for thee;

But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be:

It never through my mind had passed
The time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,

And thou shouldst smile no more!

My Heart and I

And still upon that face I look,

And think 'twill smile again;

And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain.

But when I speak-thou dost not say
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
And now I feel, as well I may,

Sweet Mary, thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene,

I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been.
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;
But there I lay thee in thy grave,—
And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;

And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart
In thinking, too, of thee;

Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before,

As fancy never could have drawn,

And never can restore!

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Charles Wolfe [1791-1823]

MY HEART AND I

ENOUGH! We're tired, my heart and I.
We sit beside the headstone thus,
And wish that name were carved for us.

The moss reprints more tenderly

The hard types of the mason's knife,
As Heaven's sweet life renews earth's life
With which we're tired, my heart and I.

You see we're tired, my heart and I.
We dealt with books, we trusted men,
And in our own blood drenched the pen,

As if such colors could not fly.

We walked too straight for fortune's end, We loved too true to keep a friend; At last we're tired, my heart and I.

How tired we feel, my heart and I!
We seem of no use in the world;
Our fancies hang gray and uncurled
About men's eyes indifferently;

Our voice which thrilled you so, will let

You sleep; our tears are only wet: What do we here, my heart and I?

So tired, so tired, my heart and I!

It was not thus in that old time

When Ralph sat with me 'neath the lime To watch the sunset from the sky.

"Dear love, you're looking tired," he said: I, smiling at him, shook my head. 'Tis now we're tired, my heart and I.

So tired, so tired, my heart and I!

Though now none takes me on his arm
To fold me close and kiss me warm
Till each quick breath end in a sigh
Of happy languor. Now, alone,
We lean upon this graveyard stone,
Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I.

Tired out we are, my heart and I.
Suppose the world brought diadems
To tempt us, crusted with loose gems
Of powers and pleasures? Let it try.
We scarcely care to look at even
A pretty child, or God's blue heaven,
We feel so tired, my heart and I.

Yet who complains? My heart and I?
In this abundant earth no doubt
Is little room for things worn out:

Rosalind's Scroll

Disdain them, break them, throw them by!
And if before the days grew rough
We once were loved, used,-well enough,
I think, we've fared, my heart and I.

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Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]

ROSALIND'S SCROLL

From "The Poet's Vow"

I LEFT thee last, a child at heart,
A woman scarce in years:
I come to thee, a solemn corpse
Which neither feels nor fears.
I have no breath to use in sighs;
They laid the dead-weights on mine eyes
To seal them safe from tears.

Look on me with thine own calm look:

I meet it calm as thou.

No look of thine can change this smile,
Or break thy sinful vow:

I tell thee that my poor scorned heart
Is of thine earth-thine earth, a part:
It cannot vex thee now.

But out, alas! these words are writ
By a living, loving one,

Adown whose cheeks the proofs of life,
The warm quick tears do run:
Ah, let the unloving corpse control
Thy scorn back from the loving soul
Whose place of rest is won.

I have prayed for thee with bursting sob
When passion's course was free;

I have prayed for thee with silent lips
In the anguish none could see;
They whispered oft, "She sleepeth soft"-
But I only prayed for thee.

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