And as a stag, sore struck by hunter's dart, Flies, and more grieves the more the chase is pressed, Endure at once my death and my delight, Racked with long grief, and weary with vain flight. MACGREGOR. HEARING NO TIDINGS OF HER, HE BEGINS TO DESPAIR. Still do I wait to hear, in vain still wait, Of that sweet enemy I love so well: If so, she will illuminate that sphere. MOREHEAD. TO LAURA IN DEATH. HE DESIRES TO DIE, THAT HIS SOUL MAY BE WITH HER, AS HIS THOUGHTS ALREADY ARE. E'en in youth's fairest flower, when Love's dear sway Leaving on earth her fleshly veil behind, From heaven she rules supreme my willing mind: That first of peace, of sin that latest day? As my fond thoughts her heavenward path pursue, MACGREGOR. HE PRAYS THAT SHE WILL BE NEAR HIM AT HIS DEATH, WHICH HE FEELS APPROACHING. Go, plaintive verse, to the cold marble go, Of life how I am wearied make her know, Of stemming these dread waves that round me rise: But, copying all her virtues I so prize, Her track I follow, yet my steps are slow. I sing of her, living or dead, alone, (Dead, did I say? She is immortal made!) That by the world she should be loved, and known. O in my passage hence may she be near, To greet my coming that's not long delayed; And may I hold in heaven the rank herself holds there! NOTT. HE WOULD DIE OF GRIEF, WERE SHE NOT SOMETIMES TO CONSOLE HIM WITH HER PRESENCE. To that soft look which now adorns the skies, The graceful bending of the radiant head, The face, the sweet angelic accents fled, That soothed me once, but now awake my sighs: I wonder that I am not long since dead! How tenderly she seems to hear the tale MOREHEAD. SINCE HER DEATH HE HAS CEASED TO LIVE. Death cannot make that beauteous face less fair, But that sweet face may lend to death a grace; My spirit's guide, from her each good I trace ; Who learns to die, may seek his lesson there. That Holy One, who not his blood would spare, But did the dark Tartarean bolts unbrace; He, too, doth from my soul death's terrors chase: Then welcome, death, thy impress I would wear. And linger not, 'tis time that I had fled; Alas! my stay hath little here availed, Since she, my Laura blest, resigned her breath: Life's spring in me hath since that hour lain dead, In I her lived, my life in hers exhaled, The hour she died I felt within me death! WOLLASTON. |