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Ere you are sweet, but freed From life, you then are prized; thus prized are poets too.
And art thou yet alive?
Send out her youth to cull
Tell me what tender care,
Bade thee arise and live.
THE MAID'S LAMENT
I LOVED him not; and yet now he is gone I feel I am alone.
I check'd him while he spoke; yet could he speak,
Alas! I would not check.
For reasons not to love him once I sought,
And wearied all my thought
To vex myself and him: I now would give
My love, could he but live
Who lately lived for me, and when he found
'Twas vain, in holy ground
He hid his face amid the shades of death.
I waste for him my breath
Who wasted his for me: but mine returns,
And this lorn bosom burns With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, And waking me to weep Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years
Wept he as bitter tears. Merciful God! such was his latest
prayer, These may she never share. Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold,
Than daisies in the mould,
Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate,
This and the following poem are from the Citation of William Shakespeare.
Groan not thus deeply; the season Of full-orb'd gladness! Shades we are indeed,
But mingled, let us feel it, with the blessed.
I knew it, but forgot it suddenly,
You are so like what you have ever been
I ever aim'd at: those who love me live, Save one, who loves me most, and now would chide me.
Agamemnon. We want not, O Iphigeneia, we
Want not embrace, nor kiss that cools the heart [more With purity, nor words that more and Teach what we know, from those we know, and sink
Often most deeply where they fall most light.
Time was when for the faintest breath of thine
Kingdom and life were little,
Iphigeneia. Ah! by our death many
are sad who loved us.
(Descending.) To each an urn we bring: Earth's purest gold Alone can hold
The lymph of the Lethean spring. We, son of Atreus! we divide The dulcet from the bitter tide That runs athwart the paths of
No more our pinions shalt thou see. Take comfort! We have done with
And must away to earth again. (Ascending.) Where thou art, thou Of braided brow, Thou cull'd too soon from Argive bowers, Where thy sweet voice is heard among The shades that thrill with choral song, None can regret the parted Hours.