In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 105

To-night ungather'd let us leave

         This laurel, let this holly stand:

         We live within the stranger's land,

And strangely falls our Christmas-eve.

Our father's dust is left alone

         And silent under other snows:

         There in due time the woodbine blows,

The violet comes, but we are gone.

No more shall wayward grief abuse

         The genial hour with mask and mime;

         For change of place, like growth of time,

Has broke the bond of dying use.

Let cares that petty shadows cast,

         By which our lives are chiefly proved,

         A little spare the night I loved,

And hold it solemn to the past.

But let no footstep beat the floor,

         Nor bowl of wassail mantle warm;

         For who would keep an ancient form

Thro' which the spirit breathes no more?

Be neither song, nor game, nor feast;

         Nor harp be touch'd, nor flute be blown;

         No dance, no motion, save alone

What lightens in the lucid east

Of rising worlds by yonder wood.

         Long sleeps the summer in the seed;

         Run out your measured arcs, and lead

The closing cycle rich in good.