Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. II. The Seventeenth Century: Ben Jonson to Dryden

Robert Herrick (1591–1674)

The Dirge of Jephthah’s Daughter

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 compass 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 hearse-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 balls,

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 cassia 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.