VIRTUE LIVETH AFTER DEATH. THE glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against fate; Death lays his icy hand on Kings : Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath The garlands wither on your brow, Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon Death's purple altar now See where the victor-victim bleeds: All heads must come To the cold tomb, Only the actions of the just Smell sweet and blossom in the dust. SHIRLEY. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. "No writing lifts exalted man so high, No kind of work requires so nice a touch, And if well finished, nothing shines so much." SHEFFIELD, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM. THE WANDERER TO HIS SISTER. My sister! my sweet sister! if a name A world to roam through, and a home with thee. The first were nothing-had I still the last, But other claims and other ties thou hast, A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past Reversed for him our grandsire's fate of yore,-He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore. If my inheritance of storms hath been I have sustain'd my share of worldly shocks, I have been cunning in mine overthrow, Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward. My whole life was a contest since the day That gave me being, gave me that which marr'd The gift,- -a fate, or will, that walk'd astray; And I at times have found the struggle hard, And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay : But now I fain would for a time survive, If but to see what next can well arrive. Kingdoms and empires in my little day |