Heaven.

ABRAHAM COWLEY.

SLEEP on! Rest, quiet as thy conscience, take, For though thou sleep'st thyself, thy God's awake, Above the subtle foldings of the sky,

Above the well set orbs' soft harmony:

Above those petty lamps that gild the night,
There is a place o'erflown with hallowed light;
Where Heaven, as if it left itself behind,

Is stretched out far, nor its own bounds can find.
Here peaceful flames swell up the sacred place,
Nor can the glory contain itself in th' endless space,
For there no twilight of the sun's dull ray
Glimmers upon the pure and endless day.
No pale-faced moon does in stolen beams appear,
Or with dim tapers scatter darkness there.
On no smooth sphere the restless seasons slide,
No circling motion doth swift time divide;
Nothing is there to come, and nothing past,
But an eternal Now does always last.

THE DEAD FRIEND.

123

Che Dead Friend.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

Nor to the grave, not to the grave, my soul,
Descend to contemplate

The form that once was dear!

The spirit is not there

Which kindled that dead eye,

Which throbbed in that cold heart,

Which in that motionless hand

Hath met thy friendly grasp.

The spirit is not there!

It is but lifeless, perishable flesh,
That moulders in the grave;

Earth, air, and water's ministering particles,

Now to the elements

Resolved, their uses done.

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul,

Follow thy friend beloved;

The spirit is not there!

Often together have we talked of death;

How sweet it were to see

All doubtful things made clear;
How sweet it were with powers
Such as the cherubim,

To view the depth of heaven!
O Edmund! thou has first
Begun the travel of eternity!
I look upon the stars,

And think that thou art there,

Unfetter'd as the thought that follows thee.

And we have often said how sweet it were
With unseen ministry of angel power,
To watch the friends we loved.

Edmund! we did not err!

Sure I have felt thy presence! Thou hast given A birth to holy thought,

Hast kept me from the world unstain'd and pure. Edmund! we did not err !

Our best affections here,

They are not like the toys of infancy;

The soul outgrows them not,

We do not cast them off;

O, if it could be so,

It were indeed a dreadful thing to die!

THE DEAD FRIEND.

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul,

Follow thy friend beloved!

But in the lonely hour,

But in the evening walk,

Think that he companies thy solitude;

Think that he holds with thee

Mysterious intercourse;

And though remembrance wake a tear,
There will be joy in grief.

125

The Shadow.

FLORENCE PERRY.

SEVENTEEN long years ago! and still
The hillock newly-heaped I see
Which hid beneath its heavy drill
One who has never died to me.

And since the leaves which o'er it wave

Have been kept green by raining tears: Strange how the shadow of a grave Could fall across so many years.

Seventeen long years ago! no cross,
No urn nor monument is there;
But drooping leaves and starry moss
Bend softly in the summer air:

The one I would have died to save

Sleeps sweetly free from griefs and fears:

Strange, how the shadow of a grave

Could fall across so many years.