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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE EXEQUY [ON HIS WIFE], by HENRY KING (1592-1669) Poem Explanation Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint Last Line: Till we shall meet and never part. Variant Title(s): An Exequy To His Matchless, Never-to-be-forgotten Friend;an Exequy, To His Matchless Never To Be Forgotten Friend Subject(s): Love | |||
Accept, thou shrine of my dead Saint! Instead of dirges this complaint; And for sweet flowers to crown thy hearse, Receive a strew of weeping verse From thy griev'd friend, whom thou might'st see Quite melted into tears for thee. Dear loss! since thy untimely fate My task hath been to meditate On thee, on thee: thou art the book, The library whereon I look Though almost blind. For thee (lov'd clay!) I languish out, not live the day, Using no other exercise But what I practise with mine eyes. By which wet glasses I find out How lazily time creeps about To one that mourns: this, only this My exercise and bus'ness is: So I compute the weary hours With sighs dissolved into showers. Nor wonder if my time go thus Backward and most preposterous; Thou hast benighted me. Thy set This eve of blackness did beget, Who wast my day, (though overcast Before thou had'st thy noon-tide passed) And I remember must in tears, Thou scarce had'st seen so many years As day tells hours. By thy clear sun My love and fortune first did run; But thou wilt never more appear Folded 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 wish The earth now interposed is, With such a strange eclipse doth make As ne'er was read in almanake. I could allow thee for a time To darken me annd 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 shroud At length disperse this sorrow's cloud. But woe is me! the longest date Too narrow is to calculate These empty hopes. Never shall I Be so much blest, as to descry A glimpse of thee, till that day come Which shall the earth to cinders doom, And a fierce fever must calcine The body of this world, like thine (My Little World!). That fit of fire Once off, our bodies shall aspire To our souls' bliss: then we shall rise, And view ourselves with clearer eyes In that calm region, where no night Can hide us from each other's sight. Meantime, thou hast her earth: much good May my harm do thee. Since it stood With Heaven's will I might not call Her longer mine, I give thee all My short-liv'd right and interest In her, whom living I lov'd best: With a most free and bounteous grief, I give thee what I could not keep. Be kind to her, and prithee look Thou write into thy Doomsday book Each parcel of this rarity Which in thy casket shrin'd doth lie: See that thou make thy reck'ning straight, And yield her back again by weight; For thou must audit on thy trust Each grain and atom of this dust: As thou wilt answer Him, that lent, Not gave thee, my dear monument. So close the ground, and 'bout her shade Black curtains draw, my bride is laid. Sleep on (my love!) in thy cold bed Never to be disquieted, My last good night! Thou wilt not wake Till I thy fate shall overtake: Till age, or grief, or sickness must Marry my body to that dust It so much loves; and fill the room My heart keeps empty in thy tomb. Star for me there; I will not fail To 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 speed Desire can make, or sorrows breed. Each minute is a short degree And ev'ry hour a step towards thee. At night when I betake to rest, Next morn I rise nearer my west Of life, almost by eight hours' sail, Than when sleep breath'd his drowsy gale. Thus from the sun my bottom steers, And my days' compass downward bears. Nor labour I to stem the tide, Through which to thee I swiftly glide. 'Tis true; with shame and grief I yield, Thou, like the van, first took'st the field, And gotten hast the victory In thus adventuring to die Before me; whose more years might crave A 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 be, I shall at last sit down by thee. The thought of this bids me go on, And wait my dissolution With hope and comfort. Dear! (forgive The crime) I am content to live Divided, with but half a heart, Till we shall meet and never part. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE INVENTION OF LOVE by MATTHEA HARVEY TWO VIEWS OF BUSON by ROBERT HASS A LOVE FOR FOUR VOICES: HOMAGE TO FRANZ JOSEPH HAYDN by ANTHONY HECHT AN OFFERING FOR PATRICIA by ANTHONY HECHT LATE AFTERNOON: THE ONSLAUGHT OF LOVE by ANTHONY HECHT A SWEETENING ALL AROUND ME AS IT FALLS by JANE HIRSHFIELD A CONTEMPLATION UPON FLOWERS by HENRY KING (1592-1669) SIC VITA by HENRY KING (1592-1669) UPON THE DEATH OF MY EVER CONSTANT FRIEND DOCTOR DONNE, DEAN OF PAUL'S by HENRY KING (1592-1669) |
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