WHERE is Timarchus gone? His father's hands were round him, And when he breathed his life away, The joy of youth had crowned him. Old man! thou wilt not forget Thy lost one, when thine eye Gazeth on the glowing cheek Of hope and piety. ANON. ON THE LOSS OF THE “ROYAL GEORGE." TOLL for the brave— The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave, Fast by their native shore! Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel, And laid her on her side. A land breeze shook the shrouds, LINES. WRITTEN AT GRASMERE, ON TIDINGS OF THE APPROACHING DEATH OF CHARLES JAMES FOX. LOUD is the Vale! the voice is up With which she speaks when storms are gone, A mighty unison of streams! Loud is the Vale;-this inland Depth Sad was I, even to pain deprest, And many thousands now are sad Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood, The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute, Whole in himself, a common good. Mourn for the man of amplest influ ence, Yet clearest of ambitious crime, O good gray head which all men knew, O voice from which their omens all men drew, O iron nerve to true occasion true, O fallen at length that tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew! Such was he whom we deplore. V. All is over and done: And a reverent people behold Dark in its funeral fold. Let the bell be tolled: And a deeper knell in the heart be knolled; And the sound of the sorrowing anthem rolled Thro' the dome of the golden cross; And the volleying cannon thunder his loss; He knew their voices of old. Bellowing victory, bellowing doom: When he with those deep voices wrought, Guarding realms and kings from shame; With those deep voices our dead captain taught The tyrant, and asserts his claim Preserve a broad approach of fame, VI. Who is he that cometh, like an honored guest, With banner and with music, with soldier and with priest, With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest? Mighty Seaman, this is he Was great by land as thou by sea. Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man, The greatest sailor since our world began. Now, to the roll of muffled drums, Was great by land as thou by sea; Followed up in valley and glen And barking for the thrones of kings; crown On that loud sabbath shook the spoiler down; A day of onsets of despair! Last, the Prussian trumpet blew; So great a soldier taught us there, What long-enduring hearts could do In that world-earthquake, Waterloo! Mighty Seaman, tender and true, And pure as he from taint of craven guile, O saviour of the silver-coasted isle, O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, If aught of things that here befall Touch a spirit among things divine, If love of country move thee there at all, Be glad, because his bones are laid by thine! And thro' the centuries let a people's voice Forever; and, whatever tempests lower, Forever silent; even if they broke In thunder, silent; yet remember all He spoke among you, and the Man who spoke; Who never sold the truth to serve the hour, Nor paltered with Eternal God for power; Who let the turbid streams of rumor flow Thro' either babbling world of high and low; Whose life was work, whose language rife With rugged maxims hewn from life; Who never spoke against a foe; Whose eighty winters freeze with one rebuke All great self-seekers trampling on the right: Truth-teller was our England's Alfred named; Truth-lover was our English Duke; Hush, the Dead March wails in the people's ears: The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tears: The black earth yawns: the mortal disappears; Ashes to ashes, dust to dust; Speak no more of his renown, THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corpse to the rampart we hurried; ON SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. SILENCE augmenteth griefe, writing encreaseth rage, Staid are my thoughts, which loved Hard hearted mindes relent, and hath slaine her knight: Sidney is dead, dead is my friend, dead is the world's delight. Place pensive wailes his fall, whose presence was her pride, Time crieth out, my ebbe is come, his life was my spring-tide; Fame mournes in that she lost, the ground of her reports, Each living wight laments his lacke, and all in sundry sorts. He was wo worth that word-to each well thinking minde, A spotless friend, a matchless man, whose vertue ever shined, Declaring in his thoughts, his life, and that he writ, Highest conceits, longest foresights, and deepest works of wit. Heart's ease and onely I, like paraleles run on, Whose equall length, keepe equall bredth and never meete in one, Yet for not wronging him, my thoughts, my sorrowes' cell, Shall not run out, though leake they will, for liking him so well. Farewel to you my hopes, my wonted waking dreames, Farewel sometime enjoyed joy eclipsed are thy beams, Farewel selfe-pleasing thoughts, which quietness brings forth, And farewel friendship's sacred league uniting minds of worth. And farewel mery heart, the gift of guiltless mindes, And all sports, which for live's restore, varietie assignes, Let all that sweet is voide? in me no mirth may dwell, Philip the cause of all this woe, my life's content, farewel. Now rime, the source of rage, which art no kin to skill, And endless griefe which deads my life, yet knows not now to kill, Go seeke that haples tombe, which if ye hap to finde, Salute the stones, that keep the lines, that held so good a minde. FULKE GREVILLE, LORD BROOKE. LYCIDAS. [In this monody, the author bewails a learned friend, unfortunately drowned in his passage from Chester on the Irish seas, 1637, and by occasion foretells the ruin of our corrupted clergy, then in their height.] YET once more, O ye laurels, and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude, Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, |