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| IT was a dismal and a fearful night: | |
| Scarce could the Morn drive on th’ unwilling Light, | |
| When Sleep, Death’s image, left my troubled breast | |
| By something liker Death possest. | |
| My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow, | 5 |
| And on my soul hung the dull weight | |
| Of some intolerable fate. | |
| What bell was that? Ah me! too much I know! | |
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| My sweet companion and my gentle peer, | |
| Why hast thou left me thus unkindly here, | 10 |
| Thy end for ever and my life to moan? | |
| O, thou hast left me all alone! | |
| Thy soul and body, when death’s agony | |
| Besieged around thy noble heart, | |
| Did not with more reluctance part | 15 |
| Than I, my dearest Friend, do part from thee. | |
| |
| My dearest Friend, would I had died for thee! | |
| Life and this world henceforth will tedious be: | |
| Nor shall I know hereafter what to do | |
| If once my griefs prove tedious too. | 20 |
| Silent and sad I walk about all day, | |
| As sullen ghosts stalk speechless by | |
| Where their hid treasures lie; | |
| Alas! my treasure’s gone; why do I stay? | |
| |
| Say, for you saw us, ye immortal lights, | 25 |
| How oft unwearied have we spent the nights, | |
| Till the Ledæan stars, so famed for love, | |
| Wonder’d at us from above! | |
| We spent them not in toys, in lusts, or wine; | |
| But search of deep Philosophy, | 30 |
| Wit, Eloquence, and Poetry— | |
| Arts which I loved, for they, my Friend, were thine. | |
| |
| Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say | |
| Have ye not seen us walking every day? | |
| Was there a tree about which did not know | 35 |
| The love betwixt us two? | |
| Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade; | |
| Or your sad branches thicker join | |
| And into darksome shades combine, | |
| Dark as the grave wherein my Friend is laid! | 40 |
| |
| Large was his soul: as large a soul as e’er | |
| Submitted to inform a body here; | |
| High as the place ’twas shortly in Heaven to have. | |
| But low and humble as his grave. | |
| So high that all the virtues there did come, | 45 |
| As to their chiefest seat | |
| Conspicuous and great; | |
| So low, that for me too it made a room. | |
| |
| Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught | |
| As if for him Knowledge had rather sought; | 50 |
| Nor did more learning ever crowded lie | |
| In such a short mortality. | |
| Whene’er the skilful youth discoursed or writ, | |
| Still did the notions throng | |
| About his eloquent tongue; | 55 |
| Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit. | |
| |
| His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit, | |
| Yet never did his God or friends forget; | |
| And when deep talk and wisdom came in view, | |
| Retired, and gave to them their due. | 60 |
| For the rich help of books he always took, | |
| Though his own searching mind before | |
| Was so with notions written o’er, | |
| As if wise Nature had made that her book. | |
| |
| With as much zeal, devotion, piety, | 65 |
| He always lived, as other saints do die. | |
| Still with his soul severe account he kept, | |
| Weeping all debts out ere he slept. | |
| Then down in peace and innocence he lay, | |
| Like the Sun’s laborious light, | 70 |
| Which still in water sets at night, | |
| Unsullied with his journey of the day. | |
| |
| But happy Thou, ta’en from this frantic age, | |
| Where ignorance and hypocrisy does rage! | |
| A fitter time for Heaven no soul e’er chose— | 75 |
| The place now only free from those. | |
| There ’mong the blest thou dost for ever shine; | |
| And whereso’er thou casts thy view | |
| Upon that white and radiant crew, | |
| See’st not a soul clothed with more light than thine. | 80 |
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