An Elegy

THOUGH beauty be the mark of praise,
   And yours of whom I sing be such
   As not the world can praise too much,
Yet 'tis your Virtue now I raise.

A virtue, like allay so gone
   Throughout your form as, though that move
   And draw and conquer all men's love,
This subjects you to love of one.

Wherein you triumph yet--because
   'Tis of your flesh, and that you use
   The noblest freedom, not to choose
Against or faith or honour's laws.

But who should less expect from you?


Again Endorsing the Lady

Horace: Book II, Elegy 2

"Liber eram et vacuo meditabar vivere lecto--"


I was free. I thought that I had entered
Love's Antarctic Zone.
"A truce to sentiment," I said. "My nights
shall be my own."
But Love had double-crossed me. How can
Beauty be so fair?
The grace of her, the face of her--and oh,
her yellow hair!

And oh, the wondrous walk of her! So doth
a goddess glide.
Jove's sister--ay, or Pallas--hath no statelier
a stride.
Fair as Iscomache herself, the Lapithanian


A Satirical Elegy on the Death of a Late Famous General

"His Grace! impossible! what, dead!
Of old age too, and in his bed!
And could that mighty warrior fall,
And so inglorious, after all?
Well, since he's gone, no matter how,
The last loud trump must wake him now;
And, trust me, as the noise grows stronger,
He'd wish to sleep a little longer.
And could he be indeed so old
As by the newspapers we're told?
Threescore, I think, is pretty high;
'Twas time in conscience he should die!
This world he cumber'd long enough;
He burnt his candle to the snuff;


A Refusal to Mourn the Death, by Fire, of a Child in London

Never until the mankind making
Bird beast and flower
Fathering and all humbling darkness
Tells with silence the last light breaking
And the still hour
Is come of the sea tumbling in harness

And I must enter again the round
Zion of the water bead
And the synagogue of the ear of corn
Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound
Or sow my salt seed
In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn

The majesty and burning of the child's death.
I shall not murder
The mankind of her going with a grave truth


A Neighbours Tears

O heighth! o Depthe! upon my bended knees
Who dare Expound these Wondrous Mysteries:
That this rare plant is cropt before mine Eyes
(Meer Shadow) left to write her Elegies.
Pray what brave Artist here can Understand
What one intends that takes a pen in hand?
Twas t'other day a place I visited
Where stands a palme, one limb where of is dead.
A bow'r which many years Thousands have shaded
By whome one Church was built: and Willard aided
Seeking the plat of Immortality
I saw no place secure but some must die


A Lament

Horace: Book II, Elegy 8

"Eripitur nobis iam pridem cara puella---"


While she I loved is being torn
From arms that held her many years,
Dost thou regard me, friend, with scorn,
Or seek to check my tears?

Bitter the hatred for a jilt,
And hot the hates of Eros are;
My hatred, slay me as thou wilt,
For thee'd be gentler far.

Can I endure that she recline
Upon another's arm? Shall they
No longer call that lady "mine"
Who "mine" was yesterday?


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