Were it a month, a year, or ten, I would thy exile live till then; And all that space my mirth adjourn, So thou would'st promise to return; And putting off thy ashy shroud At length disperse this sorrow's cloud. But woe is me! the longest date Too narrow is to calculate These empty hopes: never shall I Be so much bless'd as to descry A glimpse of thee, till that day come Which shall the earth to cinders doom, And a fierce fever must calcine The body of this world like thine, (My little world!) that fit of fire Once off, our bodies shall aspire To our soul's bliss: then we shall rise, And view ourselves with clearer eyes In that calm region, where no night Can hide us from each others sight.
Meantime, thou hast her, earth: much good
May my harm do thee! since it stood
With heaven's will I might not call
Her longer mine, I give thee all My short-liv'd right and interest In her, whom living I lov'd best: With a most free and bounteous grief, I give thee what I could not keep. Be kind to her, and prithee look Thou write into thy doomsday book Each parcel of this rarity
Which in thy casket shrin'd doth lie: See that thou make thy reck'ning straight, And yield her back again by weight;
For thou must audit on thy trust Each grain and atom of this dust, As thou wilt answer him that lent, Not gave, thee my dear monument;
So close the ground, and 'bout her shade Black curtains draw, my bride is laid. Sleep on, mv 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 fail 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 ev'ry hour a step towards thee. At night when I betake to rest, Next morn I rise nearer my west Of life, almost by eight hours sail, Than when sleep breath'd his drowsy gale. Thus from the sun my bottom steers, And my day's compass downward bears: Nor labour I to stem the tide
Through which to thee I swiftly glide.
"Tis true, with shame and grief I yield, Thou like the van first took'st the field, And gotten hast the victory
In thus adventuring to die
Before me, whose more years might crave A just precedence in the grave.
But hark! my pulse like a soft drum Beats my approach, tells thee I come; And slow howe'er my marches be, I shall at last sit down by thee. The thought of this bids me go on, And wait my dissolution
With hope and comfort, Dear (forgive The crime) I am content to live Divided, with but half a heart,
Till we shall meet and never part.
MY DEAR SON, GERVASE BEAUMONT.
CAN I, who have for others oft compil'd The songs of Death, forget my sweetest child, Which like a flow'r crush'd 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 heav'nly 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.
O may that sound be rooted in
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, ordain'd sev'n years to be In that frail body, which was part of me, Remain my pledge in heav'n, as sent to show, How to this port at ev'ry step I go.
Sir John Beaumont's Poema.
FUNERALS OF THE HON. GEO. TALBOT, ESQ.
MY BEST FRIEND AND KINSMAN.
Go, stop the swift wing'd moments in their flight
To their yet unknown coast; go, hinder night From its approach on day, and force day-rise From the fair east of some bright beauty's eyes: Else vaunt not the proud miracle of verse. It hath no power, for mine from his black hearse Redeems not Talbot, who, cold as the breathi Of winter, coffin'd lies; silent as death, Stealing on th' Anch'rit, who even wants an ear To breathe into his soft expiring prayer.
For had thy life been by thy virtues spun
Out to a length, thou hadst outliv'd the sun, And clos'd the world's great eye: or were not all Our wonders fiction, from thy funeral
Thou hadst received new life, and liv'd to be The conqueror o'er Death, inspir'd by me. But all we poets glory in is vain
And empty triumph: Art cannot regain hour lost, nor rescue a small fly By a fool's finger destinate* to die.
Live then in thy true life (great soul), for set At liberty by Death thou owest no debt T' exacting Nature: live, freed from the sport Of time and fortune, in yon starry court A glorious potentate, while we below But fashion ways to mitigate our woe. We follow camps, and to our hopes propose Th' insulting victor; not rememb'ring those Dismember'd trunks who gave him victory By a loath'd fate: we covetous merchants be, And to our aims pretend treasure and sway, Forgetful of the treasons of the sea. The shootings of a wounded conscience We patiently sustain to serve our sense With a short pleasure; so we empire gain, And rule the fate of business, the sad pain Of action we contemn, and the affright Which with pale visions still attends our night. Our joys false apparitions, but our fears Are certain prophecies, and till our ears Reach that celestial music, which thine now So cheerfully receive, we must allow
destinate to die.] One would suppose it should be
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