These are words of deeper sorrow
  Than the wail above the dead;
Both shall live, but every morrow
  Wake us from a widowed bed.

And when thou wouldst solace gather,
  When our child’s first accents flow,
Wilt thou teach her to say “Father!”
  Though his care she must forego?

When her little hands shall press thee,
  When her lip to thine is pressed,
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,
  Think of him thy love had blessed!

Should her lineaments resemble
  Those thou nevermore mayst see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble
  With a pulse yet true to me.

All my faults perchance thou knowest,
  All my madness none can know;
All my hopes, where’er thou goest,
  Wither, yet with thee they go. 
Every feeling hath been shaken;
  Pride, which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee,—­by thee forsaken,
  Even my soul forsakes me now;

But ’t is done; all words are idle,—­
  Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle
  Force their way without the will.

Fare thee well!—­thus disunited,
  Torn from every nearer tie,
Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted,
  More than this I scarce can die.

LORD BYRON.

COME, LET US KISSE AND PARTE.

Since there’s no helpe,—­come, let us kisse and parte,
  Nay, I have done,—­you get no more of me;
And I am glad,—­yea, glad with all my hearte,
  That thus so cleanly I myselfe can free. 
Shake hands forever!—­cancel all our vows;
  And when we meet at any time againe,
Be it not seene in either of our brows,
  That we one jot of former love retaine.

Now—­at the last gaspe of Love’s latest breath—­
  When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies;
When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
  And Innocence is closing up his eyes,
Now! if thou wouldst—­when all have given him over—­
  From death to life thou mightst him yet recover.

MICHAEL DRAYTON.

FAREWELL!  THOU ART TOO DEAR.

     SONNET LXXXVII.

Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know’st thy estimate: 
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
My bonds in thee are all determinate. 
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting? 
And for that riches where is my deserving? 
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving. 
Thyself thou gav’st, thy own worth then not knowing? 
Or me, to whom thou gav’st it, else mistaking;
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgment making. 
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter;
In sleep a king, but, waking, no such matter.

SHAKESPEARE.