English

An Epitaph of

the Death of Nicholas Grimald.

Behold this fleeting world how all things fade,
How everything doth pass and wear away,
Each state of life, by common course and trade,
Abides no time, but hath a passing day.
For look as life, that pleasant dame, hath brought
The pleasant years and days of lustiness,
So death our foe consumeth all to nought,
Envying these, with dart doth us oppress,
And that which is the greatest grief of all,
The greedy gripe doth no estate respect,

Behold, the meads are green again,
The orchard-bloom is seen again,
Of sky and stream the mien again
Is mild, is bright!
Now should each heart that loves obtain
Its own delight.

But I will say no ill of Love,
However slight my guerdon prove:
Repining doth not me behove:
And yet--to know
How lightly she I fain would move
Might bliss bestow!

There are who hold my folly great,
Because with little hope I wait;
But one old saw doth animate
And me assure:

Behould the father is His daughter's sonne,
The bird that built the nest is hatchd therein,
The old of yeres an hower hath not outrunne,
Eternall life to live doth nowe beginn,
The Worde is dumm, the Mirth of heaven doth weepe,
Mighte feeble is, and Force doth fayntely creepe.

O dyinge soules! behould your living springe!
O dazeled eyes! behould your sunne of grace!

Behold, love, thy power how she despiseth!
My great pain how little she regardeth!
The holy oath, whereof she taketh no cure,
Broken she hath; and yet she bideth sure
Right at her ease and little she dreadeth.
Weaponed thou art, and she unarmed sitteth;
To the disdainful her life she leadeth,
To me spiteful without cause or measure,
Behold, love.

I am in hold: if pity thee moveth,
Go bend thy bow, that stony hearts breaketh,
And with some stroke revenge the displeasure
Of thee and him, that sorrow doth endure,

Behold her Seven Hills loom white
Once more as marble-builded Rome.
Her marts teem with a touch of home
And music fills her halls at night;
Her streets flow populous, and light
Floods every happy, hopeful face;
The wheel of fortune whirls apace
And old-time fare and dare hold sway.
Farewell the blackened, toppling wall,
The bent steel gird, the sombre pall —
Farewell forever, let us pray;
Farewell, forever and a day!

Behold from sluggish winter's arm
Spring lifts herself again:
Naked before the steel-cold air
She shivers as in pain;
Look, Lalage, is that a tear
In the sun's eye which yet shines clear?

From beds of snow the flowers awake
Lifting in deep amaze
To heaven their eager eyes: but yet
More in that wistful gaze
Than wonder lies: sure trembles there,
O Lalage, some memory fair,

Some dream which 'neath the coverlet white
Of winter snow they dreamed,
Some sleeping sight of dewy dawns

" BEHOLD another singer! " Criton said,
And sneered, and in his sneering turned the leaf:
" Who reads the poets now? They are past and dead:
Give me for their vain work unrhymed relief. "
A laugh went round. Meanwhile the last ripe sheaf
Of corn was garnered, and the summer birds
Stilled their dear notes, while autumn's voice of grief
Rang through the fields, and wept the gathered herds.
Then in despair men murmured: " Is this all, —
To fade and die within this narrow ring?
Where are the singers, with their hearts aflame,

How many times night's silent queene her face
Hath hid, how oft with starres in siluer maske
In Heauen's great hall shee hath begunne her taske,
And chear'd the waking eye in lower place!
How oft the sunne hath made by Heauen's swift race
The happie louer to forsake the brest
Of his deare ladie, wishing in the west
His golden coach to runne had larger space!
I euer count, and number, since, alas!
I bade farewell to my heart's dearest guest,
The miles I compasse, and in minde I chase

Behind the gate of light
the lady of the languishing moon,
of the echoes,
of vanishing dew,
rests.

Shall we begin at zero point?
What harm in that?
The season of creation begins in the
season of nothingness:
the arduous climb
is the beginning of the end.

Behind the gate of light the lady
of the quiescent moon
of the vanishing sunset watches
the snows about to melt while
moonrays drown in the mirror.

Show me a place where I could
lie quietly among corners

Behind him lay the gray Azores,
Behind the Gates of Hercules;
Before him not the ghost of shores,
Before him only shoreless seas.
The good mate said: " Now must we pray,
For lo! the very stars are gone.
Brave Admiral, speak, what shall I say? "
" Why, say " Sail on! sail on! and on!" "

" My men grow mutinous day by day;
My men grow ghastly wan, and weak. "
The stout mate thought of home; a spray
Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek.
" What shall I say, brave Admiral, say,