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    Death

    Thomas Flatman (1637-1688)

    Oh the sad day!
    When friends shall shake their heads, and say
    Of miserable me,
    ‘Hark, how he groans, look, how he pants for breath
    See how he struggles with the pangs of death!’
    When they shall say of these poor eyes,
    ‘How hollow, and how dim they be!
    Mark how his breast does swell and rise,
    Against his potent enemy!’
    When some old friend shall step to my bedside,
    Touch my chill face, and thence shall gently slide,
    And when his next companions say
    ‘How does he do? What hopes?’ – shall turn away,
    Answering only, with a lift-up hand,
    ‘Who can his fate withstand?’
    Then shall a gasp or two do more
    Than e’er my rhetoric could before:
    Persuade the peevish world to trouble me no more!

    Love (III)

    George Herbert (1593-1633)

    Love bade me welcome. Yet my soul drew back
    Guilty of dust and sin.
    But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
    From my first entrance in,
    Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
    If I lacked any thing.

    ‘A guest,’ I answered, ‘worthy to be here’:
    Love said, ‘You shall be he.’
    ‘I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear,
    I cannot look on thee.’
    Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
    ‘Who made the eyes but I?’

    ‘Truth Lord, but I have marred them: let my shame
    Go where it doth deserve.’
    ‘And know you not,’ says Love, ‘who bore the blame?’
    ‘My dear, then I will serve.’
    ‘You must sit down,’ says Love, ‘and taste my meat’:
    So I did sit and eat.

    Here Lies a Piece of Christ

    Sir Walter Ralegh (1552-1618)

    Even such is time, that takes in trust
    Our youth, our joys, and all we have,
    And pays us but with earth and dust:
    Who, in the dark and silent grave
    When we have wandered all our ways
    Shuts up the story of our days:
    But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
    The Lord shall raise me up, I trust.

    Upon Himself Being Buried

    Robert Herrick (1591-1674)

    Let me sleep this night away,
    Till the dawning of the day;
    Then at th' opening of mine eyes
    I, and all the world, shall rise.

    To My Husband

    Eliza

    When from the world, I shall be tai’n,
    And from earths necessary pain,
    Then let no blacks be worn for me,
    Not in a Ring my dear by thee.
    But this bright Diamond, let it be
    Worn in rememberance of me.
    And when it sparkles in your eye,
    Think ’tis my shadow passeth by.
    For why, more bright you shall me see,
    Then that or any Gem can be.
    Dress not the house with sable weed,
    As if there was some dismal deed
    Acted to be when I am gone,
    There is no cause for me to mourn.
    And let no badge of Herald be
    The sign of my Antiquity.
    It was my glory I did spring
    From heavens eternal powerful King:
    To his bright Palace here am I.
    It is his promise, he’ll not lie.
    By my dear Brother lay me,
    It was a promise made by thee,
    And now I must bid thee adieu,
    For I’me a parting now from you.

    They are all Gone Into the World of Light

    Henry Vaughan (1621-1695)

    They are all gone into the world of light!
    ??And I alone sit ling'ring here;
    Their very memory is fair and bright,
    And my sad thoughts doth clear.

    It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,
    ??Like stars upon some gloomy grove,
    Or those faint beams in which this hill is dress'd,
    ????After the sun's remove.

    I see them walking in an air of glory,
    ??Whose light doth trample on my days:
    My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,
    ????Mere glimmering and decays.

    O holy Hope! and high Humility,
    ??High as the heavens above !
    These are your walks, and you have show'd them me,
    ????To kindle my cold love.

    Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just,
    ??Shining nowhere, but in the dark;
    What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,
    ????Could man outlook that mark!

    He that hath found some fledg'd bird's nest, may know
    ??At first sight, if the bird be flown;
    But what fair well or grove he sings in now,
    ????That is to him unknown.

    And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams
    ??Call to the soul when man doth sleep,
    So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,
    ????And into glory peep.

    If a star were confin'd into a tomb,
    ??Her captive flames must needs burn there;
    But when the hand that lock'd her up gives room,
    ????She'll shine through all the sphere.

    O Father of eternal life, and all
    ??Created glories under Thee!
    Resume Thy spirit from this world of thrall
    ????Into true liberty.

    Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill
    ??My perspective still as they pass:
    Or else remove me hence unto that hill
    ????Where I shall need no glass.

    No Funeral Gloom

    Emily Bronte (1818-1848)

    No coward soul is mine
    No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere
    I see Heaven's glories shine
    And Faith shines equal arming me from Fear

    O God within my breast
    Almighty ever-present Deity
    Life, that in me hast rest,
    As I Undying Life, have power in Thee

    Vain are the thousand creeds
    That move men's hearts, unutterably vain,
    Worthless as withered weeds
    Or idlest froth amid the boundless main

    To waken doubt in one
    Holding so fast by thy infinity,
    So surely anchored on
    The steadfast rock of Immortality.

    With wide-embracing love
    Thy spirit animates eternal years
    Pervades and broods above,
    Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates and rears

    Though earth and moon were gone
    And suns and universes ceased to be
    And Thou wert left alone
    Every Existence would exist in thee

    There is not room for Death
    Nor atom that his might could render void
    Since thou art Being and Breath
    And what thou art may never be destroyed.

    Crossing the Bar

    Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)

    Sunset and evening star,
    And one clear call for me!
    And may there be no moaning of the bar,
    When I put out to sea,

    But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
    Too full for sound and foam,
    When that which drew from out the boundless deep
    Turns again home.

    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.

    The Unquiet Grave

    Anon

    The wind doth blow today, my love,
    And a few small drops of rain;
    I never had but one true-love,
    In cold grave she was lain.

    I’ll do as much for my true-love
    As any young man may;
    I’ll sit and mourn all at her grave
    For a twelvemonth and a day.

    The twelvemonth and a day being up,
    The dead began to speak:
    ‘Oh who sits weeping on my grave,
    And will not let me sleep?’

    ‘T’is I, my love, sits on your grave,
    And will not let you sleep;
    For I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips,
    And that is all I seek.’

    ‘You crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips,
    But my breath smells earthy strong;
    If you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips,
    Your time will not be long.

    T’is down in yonder garden green,
    Love, where we used to walk,
    The finest flower that e’re was seen
    Is withered to a stalk.

    The stalk is withered dry, my love,
    So will our hearts decay;
    So make yourself content, my love,
    Till God calls you away.

    It is Too Late

    Emily Bronte (1818-1848)

    It is too late to call thee now,
    I will not nurse that dream again;
    For every joy that lit my brow
    Would bring its after-storm of pain.

    Besides the mist is half withdrawn,
    The barren mountain-side lies bare,
    And sunshine and awaking morn
    Paint no more golden visions there.

    Yet ever in my grateful breast
    Thy darling shade shall cherished be;
    For God alone doth know how blessed
    My early years have been in thee!

    The Choirmaster's Burial

    Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

    He often would ask us
    That, when he died,
    After playing so many
    To their last rest,
    If out of us any
    Should here abide,
    And it would not task us,
    We would with our lutes
    Play over him
    By his grave-brim
    The psalm he liked best—
    The one whose sense suits
    ‘Mount Ephraim’ —
    And perhaps we should seem
    To him, in Death’s dream,
    Like the seraphim.

    As soon as I knew
    That his spirit was gone
    I thought this his due,
    And spoke, thereupon.
    ‘I think,’ said the vicar,
    ‘A read service quicker
    Than viols out-of-doors
    In these frosts and hoars.
    That old-fashioned way
    Requires a fine day,
    And it seems to me
    It had better not be.’

    Hence, that afternoon,
    Though never knew he
    That his wish could not be,
    To get through it faster
    They buried the master
    Without any tune.

    But ’twas said that, when
    At the dead of next night
    The vicar looked out,
    There struck on his ken
    Thronged roundabout,
    Where the frost was graying
    The headstoned grass,
    A band all in white
    Like the saints in church-glass,
    Singing and playing
    The ancient stave
    By the choirmaster’s grave.

    Such the tenor man told
    When he had grown old.

    In Time of Plague

    Thomas Nashe (1567-1601)

    Adieu, farewell, earth’s bliss;
    This world uncertain is;
    Fond are life’s lustful joys;
    Death proves them all but toys;
    None from his darts can fly;
    I am sick, I must die.
    Lord, have mercy on us!

    Rich men, trust not in wealth,
    Gold cannot buy you health;
    Physic himself must fade.
    All things to end are made,
    The plague full swift goes by;
    I am sick, I must die.
    Lord, have mercy on us!

    Beauty is but a flower
    Which wrinkles will devour;
    Brightness falls from the air;
    Queens have died young and fair;
    Dust hath closed Helen’s eye.
    I am sick, I must die.
    Lord, have mercy on us!

    Strength stoops unto the grave,
    Worms feed on Hector’s brave;
    Swords may not fight with fate,
    Earth still holds ope her gate.
    “Come, come!” the bells do cry.
    I am sick, I must die.
    Lord, have mercy on us.

    Wit with his wantonness
    Tasteth death’s bitterness;
    Hell’s executioner
    Hath no ears for to hear
    What vain art can reply.
    I am sick, I must die.
    Lord, have mercy on us.

    Haste, therefore, each degree,
    To welcome destiny;
    Heaven is our heritage,
    Earth but a player’s stage;
    Mount we unto the sky.
    I am sick, I must die.
    Lord, have mercy on us.

    Hymn to God, My God, in My Sickness

    John Donne (1572-1631)

    Since I am coming to that holy room,
    Where, with thy choir of saints for evermore,
    I shall be made thy music; as I come
    I tune the instrument here at the door,
    And what I must do then, think here before.

    Whilst my physicians by their love are grown
    Cosmographers, and I their map, who lie
    Flat on this bed, that by them may be shown
    That this is my south-west discovery,
    Per fretum febris, by these straits to die,

    I joy, that in these straits I see my west;
    For, though their currents yield return to none,
    What shall my west hurt me? As west and east
    In all flat maps (and I am one) are one,
    So death doth touch the resurrection.

    Is the Pacific Sea my home? Or are
    The eastern riches? Is Jerusalem?
    Anyan, and Magellan, and Gibraltar,
    All straits, and none but straits, are ways to them,
    Whether where Japhet dwelt, or Cham, or Shem.

    We think that Paradise and Calvary,
    Christ's cross, and Adam's tree, stood in one place;
    Look, Lord, and find both Adams met in me;
    As the first Adam's sweat surrounds my face,
    May the last Adam's blood my soul embrace.

    So, in his purple wrapp'd, receive me, Lord;
    By these his thorns, give me his other crown;
    And as to others' souls I preach'd thy word,
    Be this my text, my sermon to mine own:
    Therefore that he may raise, the Lord throws down.

    Virtue

    George Herbert (1593-1633)

    Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
    The bridal of the earth and sky:
    The dew shall weep thy fall to-night,
    For thou must die.

    Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave
    Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye:
    Thy root is ever in its grave,
    And thou must die.

    Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,
    A box where sweets compacted lie;
    My music shows ye have your closes,
    And all must die.

    Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
    Like seasoned timber, never gives;
    But though the whole world turn to coal,
    Then chiefly lives.

    Peace

    Henry Vaughan (1621-1695)

    My Soul, there is a country
    Afar beyond the stars,
    Where stands a winged sentry
    All skillful in the wars:
    There, above noise and danger,
    Sweet Peace sits crown’d with smiles,
    And One born in a manger
    Commands the beauteous files.
    He is thy gracious Friend
    And (O my Soul awake!)
    Did in pure love descend
    To die here for thy sake.
    If thou canst get but thither,
    There grows the flow’r of Peace,
    The Rose that cannot wither,
    Thy fortress, and thy ease.
    Leave then thy foolish ranges;
    For none can thee secure,
    But One, who never changes –
    Thy God, thy life, thy cure.

    A Lyke-Wake Dirge

    Anon

    This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
    – Every nighte and alle,?
    Fire and fleet and candle-lighte,?
    And Christe receive thy saule.

    When thou from hence away art pass’d ,
    – Every nighte and alle,?
    To Whinny-Muir thou com'st at last;?
    And Christe receive thy saule.

    If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon,
    – Every nighte and alle,?
    Sit thee down and put them on;?
    And Christe receive thy saule.

    If hosen and shoon thou ne'er gav'st nane,
    – Every nighte and alle,?
    The whinnes sall prick thee to the bare bane;?
    And Christe receive thy saule.

    From Whinny-muir when thou mayst pass,
    – Every nighte and alle,?
    To Brig o' Dread thou com'st at last;?
    And Christe receive thy saule.

    From Brig o' Dread when thou mayst pass,
    – Every nighte and alle,?
    To Purgatory fire thou com'st at last;?
    And Christe receive thy saule.

    If ever thou gavest meat or drink,
    – Every nighte and alle,?
    The fire sall never make thee shrink;?
    And Christe receive thy saule.

    If meat or drink thou ne'er gav'st nane,
    – Every nighte and alle,?
    The fire will burn thee to the bare bane;?
    And Christe receive thy saule.

    This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
    – Every nighte and alle,?
    Fire and fleet and candle-lighte,?
    And Christe receive thy saule.

    On My First Daughter

    Ben Jonson (1572-1637)

    Here lies, to each her parents’ ruth,
    Mary, the daughter of their youth;
    Yet all heaven’s gifts being heaven’s due,
    It makes the father less to rue.
    At six months’ end she parted hence
    With safety of her innocence;
    Whose soul heaven’s queen (whose name she bears)
    In comfort of her mother’s tears,
    Hath placed amongst her virgin-train:
    Where, while that severed doth remain,
    This grave partakes the fleshly birth;
    Which cover lightly, gentle earth!

    On My First Son

    Ben Jonson (1572-1637)

    Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;
    My sin was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy.
    Seven years tho' wert lent to me, and I thee pay,
    Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.
    O, could I lose all father now! For why
    Will man lament the state he should envy?
    To have so soon 'scap'd world's and flesh's rage,
    And, if no other misery, yet age?
    Rest in soft peace, and, ask'd, say, ‘Here doth lie
    Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry.’
    For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such,
    As what he loves may never like too much.

    Upon Prue, His Maid

    Robert Herrick (1591-1674)

    In this little urn is laid
    Prudence Baldwin, once my maid,
    From whose happy spark here let
    Spring the purple violet.

    Little Elegy (for a child who skipped rope

    X. J. Kennedy (1929- )

    Here lies resting, out of breath,
    Out of turns, Elizabeth
    Whose quicksilver toes not quite
    Cleared the whirring edge of night.

    Earth whose circles round us skim
    Till they catch the lightest limb,
    Shelter now Elizabeth
    And for her sake trip up Death.

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