Exequy on his wife

ACCEPT, thou shrine of my dead saint,  Instead of dirges this complaint;  And for sweet flowers to crown thy herse  Receive a strew of weeping verse  From thy grieved friend, whom thou might'st see  Quite melted into tears for thee.     Dear loss! since thy untimely fate,  My task hath been to meditate  On thee, on thee! Thou art the book,  The library whereon I look,  Tho' almost blind. For thee, loved clay,  I languish out, not live, the day....  Thou hast benighted me; thy set  This eve of blackness did beget,  Who wast my day (tho' overcast  Before thou hadst thy noontide past):  And I remember must in tears  Thou scarce hadst seen so many years  As day tells hours. By thy clear sun  My love and fortune first did run;  But thou wilt never more appear  Folded within my hemisphere,  Since both thy light and motion,  Like a fled star, is fall'n and gone,  And 'twixt me and my soul's dear wish  The earth now interposed is....     I could allow thee for a time  To darken me and my sad clime;  Were it a month, a year, or ten,  I would thy exile live till then,  And all that space my mirth adjourn--  So thou wouldst promise to return,  And putting off thy ashy shroud  At length disperse this sorrow's cloud.     But woe is me! the longest date  Too narrow is to calculate  These empty hopes: never shall I  Be so much blest as to descry  A glimpse of thee, till that day come  Which shall the earth to cinders doom,  And a fierce fever must calcine  The body of this world--like thine,  My little world! That fit of fire  Once off, our bodies shall aspire  To our souls' bliss: then we shall rise  And view ourselves with clearer eyes  In that calm region where no night  Can hide us from each other's sight.     Meantime thou hast her, earth: much good  May my harm do thee! Since it stood  With Heaven's will I might not call  Her longer mine, I give thee all  My short-lived right and interest  In her whom living I loved best.  Be kind to her, and prithee look  Thou write into thy Doomsday book  Each parcel of this rarity  Which in thy casket shrined doth lie,  As thou wilt answer Him that lent--  Not gave--thee my dear monument.  So close the ground, and 'bout her shade  Black curtains draw: my bride is laid.     Sleep on, my Love, in thy cold bed  Never to be disquieted!  My last good-night! Thou wilt not wake  Till I thy fate shall overtake:  Till age, or grief, or sickness must  Marry my body to that dust  It so much loves; and fill the room  My heart keeps empty in thy tomb.  Stay for me there: I will not fail  To meet thee in that hollow vale.  And think not much of my delay:  I am already on the way,  And follow thee with all the speed  Desire can make, or sorrows breed.  Each minute is a short degree And every hour a step towards thee....     'Tis true--with shame and grief I yield--  Thou, like the van, first took'st the field;  And gotten hast the victory  In thus adventuring to die  Before me, whose more years might crave  A just precedence in the grave.  But hark! my pulse, like a soft drum,  Beats my approach, tells thee I come;  And slow howe'er my marches be  I shall at last sit down by thee.     The thought of this bids me go on  And wait my dissolution  With hope and comfort. Dear--forgive  The crime--I am content to live  Divided, with but half a heart,  Till we shall meet and never part.  Henry King, Bishop of Chichester