To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm, And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no

harm;

But keep the wolf far thence, that 's foe to men, For with his nails he 'll dig them up again.

10

1612.

John Webster.

MINSTREL'S SONG

From Ælla

Oн sing unto my roundelay!

Oh drop the briny tear with me!
Dance no more at holiday;

Like a running river be.

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Black his hair as the winter night,

White his skin as the summer snow,
Ruddy his face as the morning light;
Cold he lies in the grave below.

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note;
Quick in dance as thought can be;
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;

Oh! he lies by the willow-tree!

Hark! the raven flaps his wing

In the briered dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the nightmares as they go.

11

15

19

1769.

See! the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my true-love's shroud,
Whiter than the morning sky,

Whiter than the evening cloud.

Here, upon my true-love's grave

Shall the barren flowers be laid,
Not one holy saint to save

All the coldness of a maid.

With my hands I 'll fix the briers
Round his holy corse to gre;
Elfin fairies, light your fires;
Here my body still shall be.

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,
Drain my heart's blood away;

Life and all its good I scorn,

Dance by night, or feast by day.

Water-witches, crowned with reytes,
Bear me to your lethal tide.
I die! I come! my true-love waits.
Thus the damsel spake, and died..

1777.

23

27

31

35

39

Thomas Chatterton.

LACRIME

CALL me no more,

As heretofore,

The music of a feast;

Since now, alas!

The mirth that was
In me, is dead or ceas'd.

From Death's Jest-Book

IF thou wilt ease thine heart
Of love and all its smart,

Then sleep, dear, sleep!

And not a sorrow

Hang any tear on your eyelashes;

Lie still and deep,

Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes

The rim o' the sun to-morrow,
In eastern sky.

But wilt thou cure thine heart

Of love and all its smart,

Then die, dear, die!

'T is deeper, sweeter,

Than on a rose bank to lie dreaming

With folded eye;

And then alone, amid the beaming
Of love's stars, thou 'It meet her

In eastern sky.

18

1850.

Thomas Lovell Beddoes.

THE LAST WORD

1867.

CREEP into thy narrow bed,
Creep, and let no more be said!
Vain thy onset! all stands fast.
Thou thyself must break at last.

Let the long contention cease!

Geese are swans, and swans are geese.
Let them have it how they will!

Thou art tired; best be still.

8

They out-talk'd thee, hiss'd thee, tore thee?
Better men fared thus before thee;
Fired their ringing shot and pass'd,
Hotly charged-and sank at last.

Charge once more, then, and be dumb!
Let the victors, when they come,

When the forts of folly fall,

Find thy body by the wall!

12

16

Matthew Arnold.

AN EPITAPH ON THE ADMIRABLE

DRAMATIC POET, W.

SHAKESPEARE

WHAT needs my Shakespeare for his honoured

bones,

The labour of an age in pilèd stones?

Or that his hallowed relics should be hid
Under a star-y-pointing pyramid?

Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,
What need'st thou such weak witness of thy

name?

Thou in our wonder and astonishment

Hast built thyself a livelong monument.
For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavouring

art,

10

Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took;
Then thou our fancy of itself bereaving,
Dost make us marble with too much conceiving;
And so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie,
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.

1632.

John Milton.