How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes blest?
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there.
Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke.
Underneath this marble hearse
Lies the subject of all verse;
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother:
Death, ere thou hast slain another
Fair, and good, and wise as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee!
Qualis fortibus est sopor,
Compostos reqvie qvos prece patria et
Votis proseqvitur bonis?
Ver udum gelidis sicubi roribus
Heroum redeuns sacros
Ornabit tumulos, floribus induet
Primis qvale fragrantius
Nusqvam Musa vagans adtigerit solum.
Illos, funereum decus,
Divina celebrat pulsa manu chelys ;
Decantata sonat naenia vocibus:
Illic pullus adest Honor
Exstructum venerans advena caespitem ;
Libertasqve piis humum
Sacrabit lacrumis, flebilis incola.
Epitaphium Comitissae Pembrochianae.
Hic sub marmoreo iacet feretro
Qvae cunctis celebratur una Musis,
Pembrochi genetrix, soror Philippi.
Ah Mors, non prius alteram necabis.
Cultam æqve nitidamqve amabilemqve,
Aetas qvam tibi torserit sagittam.
Know'st thou the land, where hangs the citron-flower,
Where gleams the golden orange in the bower,
Where gentle zephyrs in the blue sky play,
And myrtles creep beneath the towering bay?
Know'st thou indeed?
Would I with thee, my best-beloved, speed.
Know'st thou the house, that rests on columns tall,
Its gay saloon, its glitt'ring banquet-hall,
Where marble statues stand and gaze on me :—
What have they done, thou hapless child, to thee?
Know'st thou indeed?
Would I with thee, my own kind guardian, speed.
Know'st thou the mount, and its cloud-crested steep,
Where poring mules the misty pathway keep;
In caves the dragon hides her ancient brood;
Down leaps the rock, and over it the flood?
Know'st thou indeed?
Our journey tends; my father, let us speed.
An nota tellus est tibi, qva citri
Florent, et atras aurea per comas
Dant mala fulgorem, polumqve
Caeruleum Zephyrus serenat,
Myrtusqve lauri brachia suspicit?
An nota tellus haec tibi? Qvid procul
Moramur? Illuc itur: illuc
Tecum aveo, mea vita, tolli.
Aedesne notae sunt tibi, porticus
Altae columnis, atria fulgida,
Qva stantqve defixae benignoqve
Intuitu statuae loqvuntur:
Heu tristis infans, qvid tibi contigit?
Istaene notae sunt tibi? Qvid diu
Moramur? Illuc itur: illuc
Tecum aveo tua cura tolli.
Notumne montis nubiferum caput,
Mulo petitum per nebulas iter,
Qva sub cavernosis latebris
Progenies habitat draconum,
Fractisqve torrens praecipitat iugis?
Notusne mons est hic tibi? Sic adhuc
Moramur? Illuc imus: illuc
Qvid prohibet, pater alme, tolli?
My thoughts are like a potter's wheel;
I know not where I am, or what I do.
A witch, by fear not force, like Hannibal,
Drives back our troops, and conquers as she lists:
So bees with smoke, and doves with noisome stench,
Are from their hives and houses driven away.
They call'd us, from our fierceness, English dogs;
Now, like to whelps, we crying run away.
Hark, countrymen! either renew the fight,
Or tear the lions out of England's coat;
Renounce your soil, give sheep in lions' stead:
Sheep run not half so timorous from the wolf,
Or horse or oxen from the leopard,
As you fly from your oft-subdued slaves.
There is a calm for those who weep,
A rest for weary pilgrims found;
They softly lie and sweetly sleep
Low in the ground.
The storm that wrecks the winter sky
No more disturbs their deep repose,
Than summer evening's latest sigh
That shuts the rose.
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