Littell's Living Age/Volume 144/Issue 1863/Dirge, after Herrick

is dead; but do not weep, Nor thick not so for her This fair sunlight with thy sighs; She is gently gone asleep; Peace now, lest thy fretful stir Fright the soft dew from her eyes.

Look upon her gentle face, Love and quiet thoughts are there; See how yet some latest smile Makes of her lips a lurking-place, Faintly courts thee, would beguile Thy so sick despair.

Lay her sweet i' the earth; No flower which breath of the next spring Calls from the bare turf above her, Is half so fresh, so pure a thing; Her life was all an innocent mirth, Then sweetest, being over.

Death bath taken but to save; Sweet her maid-mates! hither and strew Over her virgin grave Flowers, not yew. Here no painful heart be throbbing! No voice go out in wildered sobbing! No idle eye drop here The profanation of a tear! Only — if't must be so — a sigh, Yet more for love than misery.