LIII OF MY DEAR SON GERVASE BEAUMONT. Can I, who have for others oft compiled The songs of death, forget my sweetest child, 5 ΙΟ 15 20 Sir John Beaumont. LIV DIRGE. Fear no more the heat o' the sun, Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages: E Fear no more the frown o' the great, To thee the reed is as the oak: Fear no more the lightning-flash, Thou hast finished joy and moan: No exorciser harm thee! Nor no witchcraft charm thee! Quiet consummation have; 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 ; Who now want strength to stir their hands, Here's an acre sown indeed 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 Though you bind-in every shore 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; Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart. 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: 15 5 ΙΟ 15 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: They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath 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: 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 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; 5 The spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung; My youth is gone, and yet I am but young; I sought my death, and found it in my womb; Chidiock Tychborn. ΙΟ 15 LIX LINES WRITTEN THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS 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, But from this earth, this grave, this dust, Sir Walter Raleigh. LX SONNET. Most glorious Lord of life, that on this day This joyous day, dear Lord, with joy begin, 5 5 |