PARADISI GLORIA There is a city, builded by no hand, Of storming soldiery for evermore. There we no longer shall divide our time That flow from God's own footstool, and behold In alternations of sublime repose, Musical motion, the perpetual play Of every faculty that Heaven bestows Through the bright, busy, and eternal day. Thomas William Parsons TO NIGHT Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed Joseph Blanco White LINES WRITTEN THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS EXECUTION E'en such is Time, that takes on trust Our youth, our joys, our all we have, Who, in the dark and silent grave, Sir Walter Raleigh UP-HILL Does the road wind up-hill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day's journey take the whole long day? But is there for the night a resting-place? A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. May not the darkness hide it from my face? You cannot miss that inn. Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? Will there be beds for me and all who seek? Christina Georgina Rossetti CROSSING THE BAR Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar, But such a tide as moving seems asleep, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark: For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place, The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crost the bar. Alfred Tennyson DEATH Death stands above me, whispering low Of his strange language all I know Walter Savage Landor DEATH THE LEVELLER The glories of our blood and state 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, Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath The garlands wither on your brow; Then boast no more your mighty deeds; See where the victor-victim bleeds: To the cold tomb; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. James Shirley TEARS, IDLE TEARS Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean. Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the under world; Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge, - Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. Dear as remember'd kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd On lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret, O Death in Life, the days that are no more. Alfred Tennyson LIFE Life! I know not what thou art, Life! we've been long together Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear; Then steal away, give little warning, Say not Good Night,— but in some brighter clime Bid me Good Morning. Anna Lætitia Barbauld |