IX. DIRGES AND PATHETIC POEMS. "For when sad thoughts possess the mind of man, There is a plummet in the heart that weighs And pulls us living to the dust we came from."- BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. THE NYMPH MOURNING HER FAWN. THE wanton troopers, riding by, Them any harm, alas! nor could And nothing may we use in vain; Even beasts must be with justice slain, Else men are made their deodands. Though they should wash their guilty hands In this warm life-blood which doth part From thine, and wound me to the heart, Yet could they not be clean, their stain Is dyed in such a purple grain. There is not such another in The world, to offer for their sin. It is a wondrous thing how fleet 'Twas on those little silver feet; With what a pretty skipping grace It oft would challenge me the race; And, when it had left me far away, 'Twould stay and run again and stay; For it was nimbler much than hinds, And trod as if on the four winds. I have a garden of my own, Among the beds of lilies I Yet could not, till itself would rise, |