I have not looked upon you nigh, Since that dear soul hath fallen asleep. Great Nature is more wise than I: I will not tell you not to weep. And though my own eyes fill with dew, Drawn from the spirit through the brain, I will not even preach to you, Vain solace! Memory, standing near, Cast down her eyes, and in her throat Her voice seemed distant, and a tear Dropt on the letters as I wrote. I wrote I know not what. In truth, How should I soothe you anyway, Who miss the brother of your youth? Yet something I did wish to say. For he too was a friend to me: Both are my friends, and my true breast Bleedeth for both; yet it may be That only silence suiteth best. Words weaker than your grief would make Grief more. 'Twere better I should cease, Although myself could almost take The place of him that sleeps in peace. Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace: While the stars burn, the moons increase, Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. Sleep full of rest from head to feet; Tennyson. He who Died at Azim. HE who died at Azim sends Faithful friends! it lies, I know, I can hear your sighs and prayers; Sweet friends! what the women lave, For the last sleep of the grave, Of the eagle, not the bars That kept him from those splendid stars. Loving friends! be wise, and dry Straightway every weeping eye. What ye lift upon the bier 'Tis an empty sea-shell, one A mind that loved him; let it lie! In a perfect paradise, And a life that never dies. Farewell, friends! But not farewell: Where I am, ye, too, shall dwell. I am gone before your face A moment's worth, a little space. Kiss her and leave her, thy love is clay." They smoothed her tresses of dark brown hair; With a tender touch they closed up well And over her bosom they crossed her hands,"Come away," they said, "God understands." But he who loved her too well to dread He lit his lamp, and took the key, And turned it. Alone again,- he and she. Then he said, "Cold lips and breast without breath, Is there no voice, no language of death? "See now, I listen with soul, not ear: What was the secret of dying, dear? "O perfect dead! O dead most dear! I hold the breath of my soul to hear. "There must be pleasure in dying, sweet, To make you so placid from head to feet! "I would tell you, darling, if I were dead, "You should not ask vainly with streaming eyes, Which of all death's was the chief surprise?" Who will believe what he heard her say, "The utmost wonder is this: I hear, "And am your angel, who was your bride, Edwin Arnold. Night and Death. MYSTERIOUS night! when our first parent knew And, lo! creation widened in man's view. Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed That to such countless orbs thou madest us blind! OH may I join the choir invisible Of those immortal dead who live again In minds made better by their presence: live In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn For miserable aims that end with self, Blanco White. In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, To vaster issues. So to live is heaven: To make undying music in the world, |