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There's little joy in life for me, And little terror in the grave; I 've lived the parting hour to see Of one I would have died to save. Calmly to watch the failing breath, Wishing each sigh might be the last; Longing to see the shade of death O'er those belovèd features cast. The cloud, the stillness that must part The darling of my life from me; And then to thank God from my heart, To thank Him well and fervently; Although I knew that we had lost The hope and glory of our life; And now, benighted, tempest-tossed, Must bear alone the weary strife.

Condemned to Hope’s delusive mine, As on we toil from day to day, By sudden blasts, or slow decline, Our social comforts drop away. Well tried through many a varying year, See Levet to the grave descend; Officious, innocent, sincere, Of every friendless name the friend. Yet still he fills Affection’s eye, Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind; Nor, lettered Arrogance, deny Thy praise to merit unrefined. When fainting Nature called for aid, And hovering Death prepared the blow, His vigorous remedy displayed The power of art without the show. In Misery’s darkest cavern known, His useful care was ever nigh, Where hopeless Anguish poured his groan, And lonely Want retired to die. No summons mocked by chill delay, No petty gain disdained by pride, The modest wants of every day The toil of every day supplied. His virtues walked their narrow round, Nor made a pause, nor left a void; And sure the Eternal Master found The single talent well employed. The busy day, the peaceful night, Unfelt, uncounted, glided by; His frame was firm, his powers were bright, Though now his eightieth year was nigh. Then with no throbbing fiery pain, No cold gradations of decay, Death broke at once the vital chain, And freed his soul the nearest way.

We shall not ever meet them bearded in heaven, Nor sunning themselves among the bald of hell; If anywhere, in the deserted schoolyard at twilight, Forming a ring, perhaps, or joining hands In games whose very names we have forgotten. Come, memory, let us seek them there in the shadows.

In vain to me the smiling Mornings shine, And reddening Phœbus lifts his golden fire; The birds in vain their amorous descant join; Or cheerful fields resume their green attire; These ears, alas! for other notes repine, A different object do these eyes require; My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine; And in my breast the imperfect joys expire. Yet Morning smiles the busy race to cheer, And new-born pleasure brings to happier men; The fields to all their wonted tribute bear; To warm their little loves the birds complain; I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear, And weep the more because I weep in vain.

Mourn, mourn, ye Muses, all your loss deplore, The young, the noble Strephon is no more. Yes, yes, he fled quick as departing light, And ne’er shall rise from Death’s eternal night, So rich a prize the Stygian gods ne’er bore, Such wit, such beauty, never graced their shore. He was but lent this duller world t’ improve In all the charms of poetry, and love; Both were his gift, which freely he bestowed, And like a god, dealt to the wond’ring crowd. Scorning the little vanity of fame, Spight of himself attained a glorious name. But oh! in vain was all his peevish pride, The sun as soon might his vast luster hide, As piercing, pointed, and more lasting bright, As suffering no vicissitudes of night. Mourn, mourn, ye Muses, all your loss deplore, The young, the noble Strephon is no more. Now uninspired upon your banks we lie, Unless when we would mourn his elegy; His name’s a genius that would wit dispense, And give the theme a soul, the words a sense. But all fine thought that ravisht when it spoke, With the soft youth eternal leave has took; Uncommon wit that did the soul o’ercome, Is buried all in Strephon’s worshipped tomb; Satire has lost its art, its sting is gone, The Fop and Cully now may be undone; That dear instructing rage is now allayed, And no sharp pen dares tell ’em how they’ve strayed; Bold as a god was ev’ry lash he took, But kind and gentle the chastizing stroke. Mourn, mourn, ye youths, whom fortune has betrayed, The last reproacher of your vice is dead. Mourn, all ye beauties, put your Cyprus on, The truest swain that e’re adored you’s gone; Think how he loved, and writ, and sighed, and spoke, Recall his mien, his fashion, and his look. By what dear arts the soul he did surprise, Soft as his voice, and charming as his eyes. Bring garlands all of never-dying flowers, Bedewed with everlasting falling showers; Fix your fair eyes upon your victimed slave, Sent gay and young to his untimely grave. See where the noble swain extended lies, Too sad a triumph of your victories; Adorned with all the graces Heaven e’er lent, All that was great, soft, lovely, excellent You’ve laid into his early monument. Mourn, mourn, ye beauties, your sad loss deplore, The young, the charming Strephon is no more. Mourn, all ye little gods of love, whose darts Have lost their wonted power of piercing hearts; Lay by the gilded quiver and the bow, The useless toys can do no mischief now, Those eyes that all your arrows’ points inspired, Those lights that gave ye fire are now retired, Cold as his tomb, pale as your mother’s doves; Bewail him then oh all ye little loves, For you the humblest votary have lost That ever your divinities could boast; Upon your hands your weeping heads decline, And let your wings encompass round his shrine; In stead of flowers your broken arrows strow, And at his feet lay the neglected bow. Mourn, all ye little gods, your loss deplore, The soft, the charming Strephon is no more. Large was his fame, but short his glorious race, Like young Lucretius lived and died apace. So early roses fade, so over all They cast their fragrant scents, then softly fall, While all the scattered perfumed leaves declare, How lovely ’twas when whole, how sweet, how fair. Had he been to the Roman Empire known, When great Augustus filled the peaceful throne; Had he the noble wond’rous poet seen, And known his genius, and surveyed his mien, (When wits, and heroes graced divine abodes), He had increased the number of their gods; The royal judge had temples rear’d to’s name, And made him as immortal as his fame; In love and verse his Ovid he’ad out-done, And all his laurels, and his Julia won. Mourn, mourn, unhappy world, his loss deplore, The great, the charming Strephon is no more.

A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain, Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height: Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain For kindred Power departing from their sight; While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain, Saddens his voice again, and yet again. Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners! for the might Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes; Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows, Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true, Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea, Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope!

As my Scotch, spared the water, blondly sloshes About its tumbler, and gay manic flame Is snapping in the fireplace, I grow youthful: I realize that calendars aren’t truthful And that for all of my grand unsuccesses External causes are to blame. And if at present somewhat destitute, I plan to alter, prove myself more able, And suavely stroll into the coming years As into rooms with thick rugs, chandeliers, And colorfully pyramided fruit On linened lengths of table. At times I fear the future won’t reward My failures with sufficient compensation, But dump me, aging, in a garret room Appointed with twilit, slant-ceilinged gloom And a lone bulb depending from a cord Suggestive of self-strangulation. Then, too, I have bad dreams, in one of which A cowled, scythe-bearing figure beckons me. Dark plains glow at his back: it seems I’ve died, And my soul, weighed and judged, has qualified For an extended, hyper-sultry hitch Down in eternity. Such fears and dreams, however, always pass. And gazing from my window at the dark, My drink in hand, I’m jauntily unbowed. The sky’s tiered, windy galleries stream with cloud, And higher still, the dazed stars thickly mass In their long Ptolemaic arc. What constellated powers, unkind or kind, Sway me, what far preposterous ghosts of air? Whoever they are, whatever our connection, I toast them (toasting also my reflection), Not minding that the words which come to mind Make the toast less toast than prayer: Here’s to the next year, to the best year yet; To mixed joys, to my harum-scarum prime; To auguries reliable and specious; To times to come, such times being precious, If only for the reason that they get Shorter all the time.

How confident I am it is there. Don’t I bring it, As if it were enclosed in a fine leather case, To particular places solely for its own sake? Haven’t I set it down before the variegated canyon And the undeviating bald salt dome? Don’t I feed it on ivory calcium and ruffled Shell bellies, shore boulders, on the sight Of the petrel motionless over the sea, its splayed Feet hanging? Don’t I make sure it apprehends The invisibly fine spray more than once? I have seen that it takes in every detail I can manage concerning the garden wall and its borders. I have listed for it the comings and goings Of one hundred species of insects explicitly described. I have named the chartreuse stripe And the fimbriated antenna, the bulbed thorax And the multiple eye. I have sketched The brilliant wings of the trumpet vine and invented New vocabularies describing the interchanges between rocks And their crevices, between the holly lip And its concept of itself. And if not for its sake, why would I go Out into the night alone and stare deliberately Straight up into 15 billion years ago and more? I have cherished it. I have named it. By my own solicitations I have proof of its presence.

Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee; And was the safeguard of the west: the worth Of Venice did not fall below her birth, Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty. She was a maiden City, bright and free; No guile seduced, no force could violate; And, when she took unto herself a Mate, She must espouse the everlasting Sea. And what if she had seen those glories fade, Those titles vanish, and that strength decay; Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid When her long life hath reached its final day: Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade Of that which once was great is passed away.

There was Dai Puw. He was no good. They put him in the fields to dock swedes, And took the knife from him, when he came home At late evening with a grin Like the slash of a knife on his face. There was Llew Puw, and he was no good. Every evening after the ploughing With the big tractor he would sit in his chair, And stare into the tangled fire garden, Opening his slow lips like a snail. There was Huw Puw, too. What shall I say? I have heard him whistling in the hedges On and on, as though winter Would never again leave those fields, And all the trees were deformed. And lastly there was the girl; Beauty under some spell of the beast. Her pale face was the lantern By which they read in life’s dark book The shrill sentence: God is love.