LIII

OF MY DEAR SON GERVASE BEAUMONT.

Can I, who have for others oft compiled

The songs of death, forget my sweetest child,
Which, like the flower crusht, with a blast is dead,
And ere full time hangs down his smiling head,
Expecting with clear hope to live anew,
Among the angels fed with heavenly dew?
We have this sign of joy, that many days,
While on the earth his struggling spirit stays,
The name of Jesus in his mouth contains
His only food, his sleep, his ease from pains.
Oh! may that sound be rooted in my mind,
Of which in him such strong effect I find.
Dear Lord, receive my son, whose winning love
To me was like a friendship, far above
The course of nature, or his tender age;
Whose looks could all my bitter griefs assuage;
Let his pure soul, ordained seven years to be
In that frail body, which was part of me,
Remain my pledge in heaven, as sent to show,
How to this port at every step I go.

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Sir John Beaumont.

LIV

DIRGE.

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.

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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:
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!

LV

William Shakespeare.

ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

Mortality, behold and fear!

What a change of flesh is here!

Think how many royal bones

Sleep within these heaps of stones ;
Here they lie, had realms and lands,

Who now want strength to stir their hands,
Where from their pulpits sealed with dust
They preach, 'In greatness is no trust.'

Here's an acre sown indeed
With the richest royallest 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,

Dropt from the ruined sides of kings:

Here's a world of pomp and state

Buried in dust, once dead by fate.

Francis Beaumont.

LVI

DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST.

Victorious men of earth, no more
Proclaim how wide your empires are;

Though you bind-in every shore
And your triumphs reach as far

As night or day,

Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey,

And mingle with forgotten ashes, when

Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.

Devouring Famine, Plague, and War,

Each able to undo mankind,

Death's servile emissaries are;

Nor to these alone confined,

He hath at will

More quaint and subtle ways to kill;
A smile or kiss, as he will use the art,

Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart.
James Shirley.

LVII

THE SAME.

The glories of our blood and state

Are shadows, not substantial things;

There is no armour against fate;

Death lays his icy hand on kings:

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Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,

And plant fresh laurels where they kill:
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow;

Then boast no more your mighty deeds;

Upon Death's purple altar now

See where the victor-victim bleeds:
Your heads must come

To the cold tomb;

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

James Shirley.

LVIII

LINES WRITTEN BY ONE IN THE TOWER, BEING YOUNG AND CONDEMNED TO DIE.

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares;
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain;

My crop of corn is but a field of tares;

And all my good is but vain hope of gain :

The day is [fled], and yet I saw no sun;
And now I live, and now my life is done!

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The spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung;
The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green;

My youth is gone, and yet I am but young;
I saw the world, and yet I was not seen :
My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun;
And now I live, and now my life is done!

I sought my death, and found it in my womb;
I looked for life, and saw it was a shade;
I trod the earth, and knew it was my tomb ;
And now I die, and now I am but made :
The glass is full, and now my glass is run;
And now I live, and now my life is done!

Chidiock Tychborn.

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LIX

LINES WRITTEN THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS
EXECUTION.

E'en such is time; which takes on trust

Our youth, our joys, our all we have, And pays us but with earth and dust;

Which in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days:

But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
My God shall raise me up, I trust.

Sir Walter Raleigh.

LX

SONNET.

Most glorious Lord of life, that on this day
Didst make thy triumph over death and sin,
And, having harrowed hell, didst bring away
Captivity thence captive, us to win;

This joyous day, dear Lord, with joy begin,
And grant that we, for whom Thou diddest die,
Being with thy dear blood clean washed from sin,

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