There is a dismal process going on in the grave, ere dust
can return to its kindred dust, which the imagination shrinks
from contemplating; and we seek still to think of the form we
have loved, with those refined associations which it awakened
when blooming before us in youth and beauty. "Lay her i' the
earth," says Laertes, of his virgin sister,
And from her fair and unpolluted flesh
May violets spring.
Herrick, also, in his "Dirge of Jephtha," pours forth a fragrant
flow of poetical thought and image, which in a manner embalms the
dead in the recollections of the living.
Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice,
And make this place all Paradise:
May sweets grow here! and smoke from hence
Fat frankincense.
Let balme and cassia send their scent
From out thy maiden monument.
* * * * *
May all shie maids at wonted hours
Come forth to strew thy tombe with flowers!
May virgins, when they come to mourn
Male incense burn
Upon thine altar! then return
And leave thee sleeping in thy urn.
I might crowd my pages with extracts from the older British
poets, who wrote when these rites were more prevalent, and
delighted frequently to allude to them; but I have already quoted
more than is necessary.
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