Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
Henry King, Bishop of Chichester. 15921669280. Exequy on his Wife
ACCEPT, thou shrine of my dead saint, | |
Instead of dirges this complaint; | |
And for sweet flowers to crown thy herse | |
Receive a strew of weeping verse | |
From thy grieved friend, whom thou might’st see | 5 |
Quite melted into tears for thee. | |
Dear loss! since thy untimely fate, | |
My task hath been to meditate | |
On thee, on thee! Thou art the book, | |
The library whereon I look, | 10 |
Tho’ almost blind. For thee, loved clay, | |
I languish out, not live, the day…. | |
Thou hast benighted me; thy set | |
This eve of blackness did beget, | |
Who wast my day (tho’ overcast | 15 |
Before thou hadst thy noontide past): | |
And I remember must in tears | |
Thou scarce hadst seen so many years | |
As day tells hours. By thy clear sun | |
My love and fortune first did run; | 20 |
But thou wilt never more appear | |
Folded within my hemisphere, | |
Since both thy light and motion, | |
Like a fled star, is fall’n and gone, | |
And ‘twixt me and my soul’s dear wish | 25 |
The earth now interposèd is…. | |
I could allow thee for a time | |
To darken me and my sad clime; | |
Were it a month, a year, or ten, | |
I would thy exile live till then, | 30 |
And all that space my mirth adjourn— | |
So thou wouldst promise to return, | |
And putting off thy ashy shroud | |
At length disperse this sorrow’s cloud. | |
But woe is me! the longest date | 35 |
Too narrow is to calculate | |
These empty hopes: never shall I | |
Be so much blest as to descry | |
A glimpse of thee, till that day come | |
Which shall the earth to cinders doom, | 40 |
And a fierce fever must calcine | |
The body of this world—like thine, | |
My little world! That fit of fire | |
Once off, our bodies shall aspire | |
To our souls’ bliss: then we shall rise | 45 |
And view ourselves with clearer eyes | |
In that calm region where no night | |
Can hide us from each other’s sight. | |
Meantime thou hast her, earth: much good | |
May my harm do thee! Since it stood | 50 |
With Heaven’s will I might not call | |
Her longer mine, I give thee all | |
My short-lived right and interest | |
In her whom living I loved best. | |
Be kind to her, and prithee look | 55 |
Thou write into thy Doomsday book | |
Each parcel of this rarity | |
Which in thy casket shrined doth lie, | |
As thou wilt answer Him that lent— | |
Not gave—thee my dear monument. | 60 |
So close the ground, and ’bout her shade | |
Black curtains draw: my bride is laid. | |
Sleep on, my Love, in thy cold bed | |
Never to be disquieted! | |
My last good-night! Thou wilt not wake | 65 |
Till I thy fate shall overtake: | |
Till age, or grief, or sickness must | |
Marry my body to that dust | |
It so much loves; and fill the room | |
My heart keeps empty in thy tomb. | 70 |
Stay for me there: I will not fail | |
To meet thee in that hollow vale. | |
And think not much of my delay: | |
I am already on the way, | |
And follow thee with all the speed | 75 |
Desire can make, or sorrows breed. | |
Each minute is a short degree | |
And every hour a step towards thee…. | |
‘Tis true—with shame and grief I yield— | |
Thou, like the van, first took’st the field; | 80 |
And gotten hast the victory | |
In thus adventuring to die | |
Before me, whose more years might crave | |
A just precedence in the grave. | |
But hark! my pulse, like a soft drum, | 85 |
Beats my approach, tells thee I come; | |
And slow howe’er my marches be | |
I shall at last sit down by thee. | |
The thought of this bids me go on | |
And wait my dissolution | 90 |
With hope and comfort. Dear—forgive | |
The crime—I am content to live | |
Divided, with but half a heart, | |
Till we shall meet and never part. |