Her Epitaph And I'll rest my old head: 'Tis a poor world, this, boys, And Tommy's dead. 3317 Sydney Dobell [1824-1874] IN MEMORIAM 'Tis right for her to sleep between 'Tis well the organ's solemn sighs Should soar and sink around her rest, And almost in her ear should rise The prayers of those she loved the best. 'Tis also well this air is stirred By Nature's voices loud and low, By thunder and the chirping bird, And grasses whispering as they grow. For all her spirit's earthly course How to o'errule the hard divorce That parts things natural and divine. Undaunted by the clouds of fear, She made a Heaven about her here, HER EPITAPH THE handful here, that once was Mary's earth, "Not here! not here!" to every mourner's heart The wintry wind seemed whispering round her bier; And when the tomb-door opened, with a start We heard it echoed from within,-"Not here!" Shouldst thou, sad pilgrim, who mayst hither pass, Should spring come earlier to this hallowed grass, Know that her spirit to her body lent Such sweetness, grace, as only goodness can; Lonely through life, but looking for the day Thomas William Parsons [1819-1892] THE DEATH-BED WE watched her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, So silently we seemed to speak, So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers Our very hopes belied our fears, For when the morn came dim and sad, Her quiet eyelids closed-she had Another morn than ours. Thomas Hood [1799-1845] WHEN maidens such as Hester die, A month or more hath she been dead, To think upon the wormy bed, A springy motion in her gait, Of pride and joy no common rate, I know not by what name beside She did inherit. Her parents held the Quaker rule, But she was trained in Nature's school, A waking eye, a prying mind, A heart that stirs, is hard to bind; A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, Ye could not Hester. My sprightly neighbor, gone before Some summer morning, When from thy cheerful eyes a ray Charles Lamb [1775-1834] "SOFTLY WOO AWAY HER BREATH” SOFTLY WOO away her breath, Gentle Death! Let her leave thee with no strife, Tender, mournful, murmuring Life! She hath had her bud and blossom: She hath done her bidding here, Bear her perfect soul above, Seraph of the skies,-sweet Love! Bryan Waller Procter [1787-1874] A DEATH-BED HER suffering ended with the day, Yet lived she at its close, And breathed the long, long night away In statue-like repose. But when the sun in all his state Illumed the eastern skies, She passed through Glory's morning gate And walked in Paradise. James Aldrich [1810-1856] "SHE DIED IN BEAUTY" SHE died in beauty,-like a rose The White Jessamine She died in beauty,-like a lay She died in beauty,-like the song She died in beauty,—like the snow She lives in glory,-like night's gems She lives in glory,-like the sun Amid the blue of June. 3321 Charles Doyne Sillery [1807-1837] THE WHITE JESSAMINE I KNEW she lay above me, Where the casement all the night Shone, softened with a phosphor glow Of sympathetic light, And that her fledgling spirit pure Was pluming fast for flight. Each tendril throbbed and quickened And could scarce restrain the blossoms When, anear the destined place, Her gentle whisper thrilled me Ere I gazed upon her face. I waited, darkling, till the dawn To outpour its first perfume, John Banister Tabb [1845-1909] |