A selection from the lyrical poems of Robert Herrick Part 26

241. AN EPITAPH UPON A CHILD

Virgins promised when I died, That they would each primrose-tide Duly, morn and evening, come, And with flowers dress my tomb.

--Having promised, pay your debts Maids, and here strew violets.

242. AN EPITAPH UPON A VIRGIN

Here a solemn fast we keep, While all beauty lies asleep; Hush'd be all things, no noise here But the toning of a tear; Or a sigh of such as bring Cowslips for her covering.

243. UPON A MAID

Here she lies, in bed of spice, Fair as Eve in paradise; For her beauty, it was such, Poets could not praise too much.

Virgins come, and in a ring Her supremest REQUIEM sing; Then depart, but see ye tread Lightly, lightly o'er the dead.

244. THE DIRGE OF JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER: SUNG BY THE VIRGINS

O thou, the wonder of all days!

O paragon, and pearl of praise!

O Virgin-martyr, ever blest Above the rest Of all the maiden-train! We come, And bring fresh strewings to thy tomb.

Thus, thus, and thus, we compa.s.s round Thy harmless and unhaunted ground; And as we sing thy dirge, we will The daffadil, And other flowers, lay upon The altar of our love, thy stone.

Thou wonder of all maids, liest here, Of daughters all, the dearest dear; The eye of virgins; nay, the queen Of this smooth green, And all sweet meads, from whence we get The primrose and the violet.

Too soon, too dear did Jephthah buy, By thy sad loss, our liberty; His was the bond and cov'nant, yet Thou paid'st the debt; Lamented Maid! he won the day: But for the conquest thou didst pay.

Thy father brought with him along The olive branch and victor's song; He slew the Ammonites, we know, But to thy woe; And in the purchase of our peace, The cure was worse than the disease.

For which obedient zeal of thine, We offer here, before thy shrine, Our sighs for storax, tears for wine; And to make fine And fresh thy hea.r.s.e-cloth, we will here Four times bestrew thee every year.

Receive, for this thy praise, our tears; Receive this offering of our hairs; Receive these crystal vials, fill'd With tears, distill'd From teeming eyes; to these we bring, Each maid, her silver filleting,

To gild thy tomb; besides, these cauls, These laces, ribbons, and these falls, These veils, wherewith we use to hide The bashful bride, When we conduct her to her groom; All, all we lay upon thy tomb.

No more, no more, since thou art dead, Shall we e'er bring coy brides to bed; No more, at yearly festivals, We, cowslip b.a.l.l.s, Or chains of columbines shall make, For this or that occasion's sake.

No, no; our maiden pleasures be Wrapt in the winding-sheet with thee; 'Tis we are dead, though not i' th' grave; Or if we have One seed of life left, 'tis to keep A Lent for thee, to fast and weep.

Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, And make this place all paradise; May sweets grow here, and smoke from hence Fat frankincense; Let balm and ca.s.sia send their scent From out thy maiden-monument.

May no wolf howl, or screech owl stir A wing about thy sepulchre!

No boisterous winds or storms come hither, To starve or wither Thy soft sweet earth; but, like a spring, Love keep it ever flourishing.

May all shy maids, at wonted hours, Come forth to strew thy tomb with flowers; May virgins, when they come to mourn, Male-incense burn Upon thine altar; then return, And leave thee sleeping in thy urn.

245. THE WIDOWS' TEARS; OR, DIRGE OF DORCAS

Come pity us, all ye who see Our harps hung on the willow-tree; Come pity us, ye pa.s.sers-by, Who see or hear poor widows' cry; Come pity us, and bring your ears And eyes to pity widows' tears.

CHOR. And when you are come hither, Then we will keep A fast, and weep Our eyes out all together,

For Tabitha; who dead lies here, Clean wash'd, and laid out for the bier.

O modest matrons, weep and wail!

For now the corn and wine must fail; The basket and the bin of bread, Wherewith so many souls were fed, CHOR. Stand empty here for ever; And ah! the poor, At thy worn door, Shall be relieved never.

Woe worth the time, woe worth the day, That reft us of thee, Tabitha!

For we have lost, with thee, the meal, The bits, the morsels, and the deal Of gentle paste and yielding dough, That thou on widows did bestow.

CHOR. All's gone, and death hath taken Away from us Our maundy; thus Thy widows stand forsaken.

Ah, Dorcas, Dorcas! now adieu We bid the cruise and pannier too; Ay, and the flesh, for and the fish, Doled to us in that lordly dish.

We take our leaves now of the loom From whence the housewives' cloth did come; CHOR. The web affords now nothing; Thou being dead, The worsted thread Is cut, that made us clothing.

Farewell the flax and reaming wool, With which thy house was plentiful; Farewell the coats, the garments, and The sheets, the rugs, made by thy hand; Farewell thy fire and thy light, That ne'er went out by day or night:-- CHOR. No, or thy zeal so speedy, That found a way, By peep of day, To feed and clothe the needy.

But ah, alas! the almond-bough And olive-branch is wither'd now; The wine-press now is ta'en from us, The saffron and the calamus; The spice and spikenard hence is gone, The storax and the cinnamon; CHOR. The carol of our gladness Has taken wing; And our late spring Of mirth is turn'd to sadness.

How wise wast thou in all thy ways!

How worthy of respect and praise!

How matron-like didst thou go drest!

How soberly above the rest Of those that prank it with their plumes, And jet it with their choice perfumes!

CHOR. Thy vestures were not flowing; Nor did the street Accuse thy feet Of mincing in their going.

And though thou here liest dead, we see A deal of beauty yet in thee.

How sweetly shews thy smiling face, Thy lips with all diffused grace!

Thy hands, though cold, yet spotless, white, And comely as the chrysolite.

CHOR. Thy belly like a hill is, Or as a neat Clean heap of wheat, All set about with lilies.

Sleep with thy beauties here, while we Will shew these garments made by thee; These were the coats; in these are read The monuments of Dorcas dead: These were thy acts, and thou shalt have These hung as honours o'er thy grave:-- CHOR. And after us, distressed, Should fame be dumb, Thy very tomb Would cry out, Thou art blessed.

246. UPON HIS SISTER-IN-LAW, MISTRESS ELIZABETH HERRICK

First, for effusions due unto the dead, My solemn vows have here accomplished; Next, how I love thee, that my grief must tell, Wherein thou liv'st for ever.--Dear, farewell!