No More Learning

What shall become of others, since so pure
A body did such heats and colds endure,
And changed so often in so little space?
Ah, worldly hopes, how blind you be, how base!
If since I bathe the ground with flowing tears
For that mild soul, who sees it, witness bears;
And thou who read'st mayst judge she fetter'd me
The sixth of April, and did set me free
On the same day and month. Oh! how the way
Of fortune is unsure; none hates the day
Of slavery, or of death, so much as I
Abhor the time which wrought my liberty,
And my too lasting life; it had been just
My greater age had first been turn'd to dust,
And paid to time, and to the world, the debt
I owed, then earth had kept her glorious state:
Now at what rate I should the sorrow prize
I know not, nor have heart that can suffice
The sad affliction to relate in verse
Of these fair dames, that wept about her hearse;
"Courtesy, Virtue, Beauty, all are lost;
What shall become of us? None else can boast
Such high perfection; no more we shall
Hear her wise words, nor the angelical
Sweet music of her voice. " While thus they cried,
The parting spirit doth itself divide
With every virtue from the noble breast,
As some grave hermit seeks a lonely rest:
The heavens were clear, and all the ambient air
Without a threatening cloud; no adversaire
'Durst once appear, or her calm mind affright;
Death singly did herself conclude the fight;
After, when fear, and the extremest plaint
Were ceased, th' attentive eyes of all were bent
On that fair face, and by despair became
Secure; she who was spent, not like a flame
By force extinguish'd, but as lights decay,
And undiscerned waste themselves away:
Thus went the soul in peace; so lamps are spent,
As the oil fails which gave them nourishment;
In sum, her countenance you still might know
The same it was, not pale, but white as snow,
Which on the tops of hills in gentle flakes
Falls in a calm, or as a man that takes
Desir'ed rest, as if her lovely sight
Were closed with sweetest sleep, after the sprite
Was gone. If this be that fools call to die,
Death seem'd in her exceeding fair to be.

ANNA HUME.


[LINES 103 TO END. ]


And now closed in the last hour's narrow span
Of that so glorious and so brief career,
Ere the dark pass so terrible to man!
And a fair troop of ladies gather'd there,
Still of this earth, with grace and honour crown'd,
To mark if ever Death remorseful were.
This gentle company thus throng'd around,
In her contemplating the awful end
All once must make, by law of nature bound;
Each was a neighbour, each a sorrowing friend.
Then Death stretch'd forth his hand, in that dread hour,
From her bright head a golden hair to rend,
Thus culling of this earth the fairest flower;
Nor hate impell'd the deed, but pride, to dare
Assert o'er highest excellence his power.
What tearful lamentations fill the air
The while those beauteous eyes alone are dry,
Whose sway my burning thoughts and lays declare!
And while in grief dissolved all weep and sigh,
She, in meek silence, joyous sits secure,
Gathering already virtue's guerdon high.
"Depart in peace, O mortal goddess pure! "
They said; and such she was: although it nought
'Gainst mightier Death avail'd, so stern--so sure!
Alas for others! if a few nights wrought
In her each change of suffering dust below!
Oh! Hope, how false! how blind all human thought!
Whether in earth sank deep the dews of woe
For the bright spirit that had pass'd away,
Think, ye who listen! they who witness'd know.
'Twas the first hour, of April the sixth day,
That bound me, and, alas! now sets me free:
How Fortune doth her fickleness display!
None ever grieved for loss of liberty
Or doom of death as I for freedom grieve,
And life prolong'd, who only ask to die.
Due to the world it had been her to leave,
And me, of earlier birth, to have laid low,
Nor of its pride and boast the age bereave.
How great the grief it is not mine to show,
Scarce dare I think, still less by numbers try,
Or by vain speech to ease my weight of woe.
Virtue is dead, beauty and courtesy!