CHARLES LAMB
For darker closets of the tomb!
She did but ope an eye, and put
A clear beam forth, then straight up shut
For the long dark: ne'er more to see
Through glasses of mortality.
Riddle of destiny, who can show What thy short visit meant, or know What thy errand here below ? Shall we say that Nature blind Check'd her hand, and changed her mind, Just when she had exactly wrought A finished pattern without fault? Could she flag, or could she tire, Or lack'd she the Promethean fire (With her nine moons' long working sicken'd) That should thy little limbs have quicken'd^ Limbs so firm, they scem'd to assure Life of health, and days mature: Woman's self in miniature! Limbs so fair, they might supply (Themselves now but cold imagery) The sculptor to make Beauty by. Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry That babe or mother, one must die; So in mercy left the stock And cut the branch, to save the shock Of young years widow'd, and the pain When single state comes back again To the lone man who, reft of wife, Thenceforward drags a maimed life? The economy of Heaven is dark, And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark,
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