Only a sweet and virtuous soul,

Like seasoned timber, never gives;

But, though the whole world turn to coal,

Then chiefly lives.

GEORGE HERBERT.

DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST.

HE glories of our birth and state,
Are shadows not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate:
Death lays his icy hands on kings;
Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield,
They tame but one another still;
Early or late,

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,

Then boast no more your mighty deeds;

Upon Death's purple altar, now,

See where the victor victim bleeds:
All heads must come

To the cold tomb,

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.

JAMES SHIRLEY, (1646.)

MY LIFE DRAWETH NIGH TO THE GRAVE.

O rest, my Rest,

For ever blest,

Thy grave with sinners making

By Thy precious death from sin
My dead soul awaking.

Here hast Thou lain,

After much pain,

Life of my life, reposing:

Round Thee now a rock-hewn grave,

Rock of ages closing.

Breath of all breath,
I know, from death

Thou wilt my dust awaken;
Wherefore should I dread the grave,

Or my faith be shaken?

To me the tomb

Is but a room

Where I lie down on roses;

Who by death hath conquered death, Sweetly there reposes.

The body dies

(Nought else) and lies

In dust, until victorious

From the grave it shall arise
Beautiful and glorious.

Meantime I will,
My Jesus still

Deep in my bosom lay Thee,

Musing on Thy death: in death

Be with me, I pray Thee.