THE DIRGE OF IMOGEN.

Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed:
Beloved till Life can charm no more,
And mourned till Pity's self be dead.

WILLIAM COLLINS.

THE DIRGE OF IMOGEN.

FEAR no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious Winter's rages;

Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak.
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning-flash,

Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;

Fear not slander, censure rash ;

Thou hast finished joy and moan:

YORK AND LANCASTER.

All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

No exorciser harm thee!

Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!

Quiet consummation have,

And renowned be thy grave!

SHAKSPEARK

YORK AND LANCASTER.

If this fair rose offend thy sight,
Placed in thy bosom bare,

"Twill blush to find itself less white,
And turn Lancastrian there.

But if thy ruby lip it spy,

As kiss it thou mayst deign,

With envy pale 'twill lose its dye,
And Yorkish turn again.

ANONYMOUS.

AT THE CHURCH GATE.

With longing eyes I wait,
Expectant of her.

The minster bell tolls out
Above the city's rout,

And noise and humming.
They've hushed the minster bell:

The organ 'gins to swell:

She's coming, she's coming!

My lady comes at last,

Timid, and stepping fast,

And hastening hither,

With modest eyes downcast;

She comes she's here, she's past!

May Heaven go with her!

Kneel undisturbed, fair saint!
Pour out your praise or plaint
Meekly and duly;

I will not enter there,

To sully your pure prayer
With thoughts unruly.

But suffer me to pace

Round the forbidden place,

Lingering a minute,

Like outcast spirits, who wait,

And see, through Heaven's gate,
Angels within it.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY

ELEGY.

SLEEP on, my love, in thy cold bed,
Never to be disquieted!

My last good night! Thou wilt not wake

Till I thy fate shall overtake,

Till age, or grief, or sickness, must
Marry my body to that dust.

It so much loves, and fill the room
My heart keeps empty in thy tomb.
Stay for me there; I will not faile
To meet thee in that hollow vale;
And think not much of my delay:
I am already on the way,

And follow thee with all the speed
Desire can make, or sorrows breed.
Each minute is a short degree,
And every hour a step towards thee;
At night when I betake to rest,
Next morn I rise nearer my west

Of life, almost by eight houres saile,

Than when sleep breathed his drowsie gale.

Thus from the sun my bottom steares, And my dayes compass downward bears; Nor labor I to stemme the tide

Through which to thee I swiftly glide.