Of death to leave that vainly-precious thing
In this cold world! What were it, then, if thou,
With thy fond eyes, wert gazing on me now?
Too keen a pang! Farewell! and yet once more,
Farewell! The passion of long years I pour
Into that word! Thou hear’st not—but the woe
And fervour of its tones may one day flow
To thy heart’s holy place: there let them dwell.
We shall o’ersweep the grave to meet. Farewell!
[342] “Wheresoever you are, or in what state soever you be, it sufficeth me you are mine. Rachel wept and would not be comforted, because her children were no more. And that indeed, is the remediless sorrow, and none else!”—From a letter of Arabella Stuart’s to her husband.—See Curiosities of Literature.