The glories of our blood and state
  Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate;
  Death lays his icy hand 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: 
          Your heads must come
          To the cold tomb,
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

Dyce’s Text.

* * * * *

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

83. Stanzas.

1.

My days among the Dead are past;
  Around me I behold,
Where’er these casual eyes are cast
  The mighty minds of old;
My never failing friends are they,
With whom I converse day by day.

2.

With them I take delight in weal,
  And seek relief in woe;
And while I understand and feel
  How much to them I owe,
My cheeks have often been bedew’d
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

3.

My thoughts are with the Dead, with them
  I live in long-past years,
Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
  Partake their hopes and fears,
And from their lessons seek and find
Instruction with an humble mind.

4.

My hopes are with the Dead, anon
  My place with them will be,
And I with them shall travel on
  Through all Futurity;
Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
That will not perish in the dust.

1837 Edition.

* * * * *

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

84. Requiem.

Under the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie. 
  Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me: 
Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
  And the hunter home from the hill.

1887 Edition.

* * * * *

LORD TENNYSON.

85. Song from ’The Miller’s Daughter.’

It is the miller’s daughter,
  And she is grown so dear, so dear,
That I would be the jewel
  That trembles in her ear: 
For hid in ringlets day and night,
I’d touch her neck so warm and white.