Here's an acre sown indeed
With the richest royal'st seed
That the earth did e'er suck in,
Since the first man died for sin;
Here the bones of birth have cried,
"Though gods they were, as men they died."
Here are sands, ignoble things,
Dropped from the ruined sides of kings.
Here's a world of pomp and state,
Buried in dust, once dead by fate.
Francis Beaumont [1584-1616]
EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS DOWAGER
OF PEMBROKE
UNDERNEATH this sable hearse
Lies the subject of all verse:
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother?
Death, ere thou hast slain another,
Fair, and learned, and good as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee.
Marble piles let no man raise
To her name: in after days,
Some kind woman born as she,
Reading this, like Niobe
Shall turn marble, and become
Both her mourner and her tomb.
William Browne [1591-1643?]
AN EPITAPH INTENDED FOR HIMSELF LIKE thee I once have stemmed the sea of life, Like thee have languished after empty joys, Like thee have labored in the stormy strife, Been grieved for trifles, and amused with toys. Forget my frailties; thou art also frail:
Forgive my lapses; for thyself may'st fall: Nor read unmoved my artless tender taleI was a friend, O man, to thee, to all.
James Beattie [1735-1803]
e to my sable shroud.
upon the self-same hill,
by fountain, shade, and rill;
he high Lawns appeared
ye-lids of the Morn,
1 both together heard
-fly winds her sultry horn,
with the fresh dews of night,
rose, at Evening, bright
scent had sloped his westering wheel.
1 ditties were not mute,
1, and Fauns with cloven heel,
From the glad sound would not be absent long,
And old Damætas loved to hear our song.
But O the heavy change, now thou art gone,
Now thou art gone, and never must return!
Thee, Shepherd, thee the Woods, and desert Caves,
With wild Thyme and the gadding Vine o'ergrown,
And all their echoes mourn.
The Willows, and the Hazel Copses green,
Shall now no more be seen,
Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy soft lays.
As killing as the Canker to the Rose,
Or Taint-worm to the weanling Herds that graze,
Or Frost to Flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear,
When first the White-thorn blows;
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherd's ear.
Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep
Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas?
For neither were ye playing on the steep,
Where your
old Bards, the famous Druids, lie,
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream:
Aye me, I fondly dream!
Had ye been there-for what could that have done?
What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,
The Muse herself, for her enchanting son
Whom Universal nature did lament,
When, by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His gory visage down the stream was sent,
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?
Alas! What boots it with uncessant care
To tend the homely slighted Shepherd's trade,
And strictly meditate the thankless Muse,
Were it not better done, as others use,
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair?
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
(That last infirmity of Noble mind)
To scorn delights, and live laborious days;
But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
with the abhorrèd shears, n life. "But not the praise," couched my trembling ears; at grows on mortal soil, Foil
nor in broad rumor lies,
aloft by those pure eyes,
-f all-judging Jove;
Ely on each deed,
Heaven expect thy meed."
se, and thou honored flood,
us, crowned with vocal reeds,
was of a higher mood:
ceeds,
erald of the Sea
he's plea.
and asked the Felon winds, ath doomed this gentle swain? y gust of rugged wings
each beakèd Promontory.
s their answer brings,
from his dungeon strayed, nd on the level brine,
Il her sisters played. perfidious Bark
and rigged with curses dark, at sacred head of thine.
rend Sire, went footing slow, nd his Bonnet sedge,
res dim, and on the edge
e flower inscribed with woe.
," (quoth he) "my dearest pledge?"
did go,
lilean Lake.
bore of metals twain,
the Iron shuts amain).
ed locks, and stern bespake,
have spared for thee, young swain, -r their bellies' sake,
Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold!
Of other care they little reckoning make,
Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast,
And shove away the worthy bidden guest.
Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold
A Sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least
That to the faithful Herdman's art belongs!
What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;
And when they list, their lean and flashy songs
Grate on their scrannel Pipes of wretched straw,
The hungry Sheep look up, and are not fed,
But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw,
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:
Besides what the grim Wolf with privy paw
Daily devours apace, and nothing said.
But that two-handed engine at the door,
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more."
Return Alpheus, the dread voice is past,
That shrunk thy streams; return Sicilian Muse,
And call the Vales, and bid them hither cast
Their Bells, and Flowerets of a thousand hues.
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use,
Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,
On whose fresh lap the swart Star sparely looks,
Throw hither all your quaint enameled eyes,
That on the green turf suck the honied showers,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
Bring the rathe Primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Jessamine,
The white Pink, and the Pansy freaked with jet,
The glowing Violet,
The Musk-rose, and the well-attired Woodbine,
With Cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears:
Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed,
And Daffadillies fill their cups with tears,
To strew the Laureate Hearse where Lycid lies.
For so to interpose a little ease,
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
Ay me! Whilst thee the shores, and sounding Seas
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