Exequy on his Wife

Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint,Instead of dirges this complaint;And for sweet flowers to crown thy herseReceive a strew of weeping verseFrom thy grieved friend, whom thou might’st seeQuite melted into tears for thee.Dear loss! since thy untimely fate,My task hath been to meditateOn 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 setThis eve of blackness did beget,Who wast my day (tho’ overcastBefore thou hadst thy noontide past):And I remember must in tearsThou scarce hadst seen so many yearsAs day tells hours. By thy clear sunMy love and fortune first did run;But thou wilt never more appearFolded 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 wishThe earth now interposèd is....I could allow thee for a timeTo 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 shroudAt length disperse this sorrow’s cloud.But woe is me! the longest dateToo narrow is to calculateThese empty hopes: never shall IBe so much blest as to descryA glimpse of thee, till that day comeWhich shall the earth to cinders doom,And a fierce fever must calcineThe body of this world--like thine,My little world! That fit of fireOnce off, our bodies shall aspireTo our souls’ bliss: then we shall riseAnd view ourselves with clearer eyesIn that calm region where no nightCan hide us from each other’s sight.Meantime thou hast her, earth: much goodMay my harm do thee! Since it stoodWith Heaven’s will I might not callHer longer mine, I give thee allMy short-lived right and interestIn her whom living I loved best.Be kind to her, and prithee lookThou write into thy Doomsday bookEach parcel of this rarityWhich in thy casket shrined doth lie,As thou wilt answer Him that lent--Not gave--thee my dear monument.So close the ground, and ’bout her shadeBlack curtains draw: my bride is laid.Sleep on, my Love, in thy cold bedNever to be disquieted!My last good-night! Thou wilt not wakeTill I thy fate shall overtake:Till age, or grief, or sickness mustMarry my body to that dustIt so much loves; and fill the roomMy heart keeps empty in thy tomb.Stay for me there: I will not failTo 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 speedDesire can make, or sorrows breed.Each minute is a short degreeAnd every hour a step towards thee....’Tis true--with shame and grief I yield--Thou, like the van, first took’st the field;And gotten hast the victoryIn thus adventuring to dieBefore me, whose more years might craveA just precedence in the grave.But hark! my pulse, like a soft drum,Beats my approach, tells thee I come;And slow howe’er my marches beI shall at last sit down by thee.The thought of this bids me go onAnd wait my dissolutionWith hope and comfort. Dear--forgiveThe crime--I am content to liveDivided, with but half a heart,Till we shall meet and never part.