"Oh, Why Should the Spirit be Proud?" 3197 Bards, heroes, sages, side by side, Who darkened nations when they died. Earth has hosts, but thou canst show Hath for countless years rolled on. Back from the tomb No step has come, There fixed till the last thunder's sound Shall bid thy prisoners be unbound. George Croly [1780-1860] “OH, WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD?" Oн, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, The child that a mother attended and loved, The mother that infant's affection who proved, The maid on whose brow, on whose cheek, in whose eye, The hand of the king, that the scepter hath borne; The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap; The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep; The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread, Have faded away like the grass that we tread. The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven, So the multitude goes, like the flower or weed, For we are the same things our fathers have been; The thoughts we are thinking our fathers did think; They loved, but the story we cannot unfold; They died,-ah! they died;-we, things that are now, Yea, hope and despondency, pleasure and pain, Are mingled together in sunshine and rain: Still follow each other like surge upon surge. The Hour of Death 3199 'Tis the wink of an eye; 'tis the draught of a breath From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud; Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? William Knox [1789-1825] THE HOUR OF DEATH LEAVES have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! Day is for mortal care: Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth; The banquet hath its hour Its feverish hour-of mirth and song and wine; Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay, And smile at thee, but thou art not of those That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! We know when moons shall wane, When summer birds from far shall cross the sea, Is it when Spring's first gale Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? Thou art where billows foam; Thou art where music melts upon the air; Thou art around us in our peaceful home; And the world calls us forth-and thou art there. Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest; Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set, but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! Felicia Dorothea Hemans [1793-1835] THE SLEEP "He giveth his beloved sleep."-Psalm cxxvii, 2 Of all the thoughts of God that are What would we give to our beloved? What do we give to our beloved? A little faith all undisproved, A little dust to overweep, And bitter memories to make The whole earth blasted for our sake: He giveth his beloved--sleep. The Sleep "Sleep soft," beloved! we sometimes say, Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep: Shall break the happy slumber when O earth, so full of dreary noises! His dews drop mutely on the hill, Though on its slope men sow and reap: More softly than the dew is shed, Ay, men may wonder while they scan For me, my heart, that erst did go That sees through tears the mummers leap, Would now its wearied vision close, Would childlike on his love repose Who giveth his beloved-sleep. And friends, dear friends, when it shall be That this low breath is gone from me, And round my bier ye come to weep, Say "Not a tear must o'er her fall! He giveth his beloved sleep." 3201 Elizabeth Barrelt Browning [1806-1861] |