HENRY VAUGHAN

And still a new succession sings and flies;

Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shoot Towards the old and still enduring skies,

While the low violet thrives at their root.

But thou beneath the sad and heavy line

Of death, doth waste all senseless, cold, and dark;

Where not so much as dreams of light may shine, Nor any thought of greenness, leaf, or bark.

And yet as if some deep hate and dissent,

Bred in thy growth betwixt high winds and thee,

Were still alive thou dost great storms resent

Before they come, and know'st how near they be.

Else all at rest thou liest, and the fierce breath Of tempests can no more disturb thy ease ;

But this thy strange resentment after death

Means only those who broke in life thy peace.

��Friends Departed

HTHEY are all gone into the world of light!

• And I alone sit ling' ring here ;

Their very memory is fair and bright,

And my sad thoughts doth clear.

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, Like stars upon some gloomy grove, Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest After the sun's remove.

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