Visit’st the bottom of the monstrous world;
Or whether thou to our moist vows denied,
Sleep’st by the fable of Bellerus old,
Where the great vision of the guarded mount
Looks towards Namancos and Bayona’s hold;
Look homeward angel now, and melt with ruth! 
And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth! 
  Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more! 
For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. 
So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,
And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky;
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,
Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves,
Where, other groves and other streams along,
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,
And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. 
There entertain him all the saints above,
In solemn troops and sweet societies,
That sing, and singing in their glory move,
And wipe the tears forever from his eyes. 
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;
Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore,
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good
To all that wander in that perilous flood. 
  Thus sang the uncouth swain to th’ oaks and rills,
While the still morn went out with sandals gray;
He touched the tender stops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay. 
And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,
And now was dropt into the western bay;
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue: 
To-morrow to fresh, woods and pastures new.

MILTON.

AFTER DEATH.

     FROM “PEARLS OF THE FAITH.”

     He made life—­and He takes it—­but instead
      Gives more:  praise the Restorer, Al-Mu’hid!

He who dies at Azan[11] sends
This to comfort faithful friends:—­

Faithful friends! it lies, I know,
Pale and white and cold as snow;
And ye says, “Abdullah’s dead!”
Weeping at my feet and head. 
I can see your falling tears,
I can hear your cries and prayers,
Yet I smile and whisper this:—­
“I am not that thing you kiss;
Cease your tears and let it lie: 
It was mine, it is not I.”

Sweet friends! what the women lave
For its last bed in the grave
Is a tent which I am quitting,
Is a garment no more fitting,
Is a cage from which at last
Like a hawk my soul hath passed. 
Love the inmate, not the room;
The wearer, not the garb; the plume
Of the falcon, not the bars
Which kept him from the splendid stars. 
Loving friends! be wise, and dry
Straightway every weeping eye: 
What ye lift upon the bier
Is not worth a wistful tear. 
’Tis an empty sea-shell, one
Out of which the pearl is gone. 
The shell is broken, it lies there;
The pearl, the all, the soul, is here. 
’Tis an earthen jar whose lid
Allah sealed, the while it hid
That treasure of His treasury,
A mind which loved him:  let it lie! 
Let the shard be earth’s once more,
Since the gold shines in His store!