HENRY KING

From thy grieved friend, whom thou might* st see 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, 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 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 ; 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 The earth now interposed 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, 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 Too narrow is to calculate These empty hopes: never shall I

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