(As to their number,) to their dignities. She whom we celebrate is gone before: She who had here so much essential joy, As no chance could distract, much less destroy; Who with God's presence was acquainted so, (Hearing and speaking to him,) as to know His face in any natural stone or tree was grown Was her first Parent's fault, and not her own: Who, being solicited to any act, Still heard God pleading his safe pre-contract: Who, by a faithful confidence was here Betrothed to God, and now is married there: Whose twilights were more clear than our mid-day; Who dreamed deyoutlier than most use to pray! Who being here filled with grace, yet strove to be Both where more grace and more capacity At once is given. She to Heaven is gone, Who made this world in some proportion A Heaven, and here became unto us all Joy, (as our joys admit,) essential. TO MILTON. DONNE. MILTON! thou shouldst be living at this hour: Fngland hath need of thee: she is a fen O stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, Have forfeited their ancient English dower Awaking with a start, The waters heave around me; and on high The winds lift up their voices: I depart, Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by, When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye. Once more upon the waters! yet once more! And the waves bound beneath me as a steed That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar! Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead! Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed, And the rent canvas fluttering, strew the gale, Still must I on; for I am as a weed, Flung from the rock, on ocean's foam, to sail Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail. BYRON. Think of him thy love had blessed! Should her lineaments resemble Those thou never more mayst see, Then thy heart will softly tremble With a pulse yet true to me. All my faults perchance thou knowest, All my madness none can know; All my hopes, where'er thou goest, Whither, yet with thee they go. Every feeling hath been shaken; Pride, which not a world could bow, Bows to thee, - by thee forsaken, Even my soul forsakes me now; But 'tis done, - all words are idle, Words from me are vainer still; But the thoughts we cannot bridle Force their way without the will. Fare thee well! thus disunited, Torn from every nearer tie, Seared in heart, and love, and blighted, More than this I scarce can die. NO MORE. BYRON. No more no more-Oh! never more on me The freshness of the heart can fall like dew, Which out of all the lovely things we see, Extracts emotions beautiful and new, |