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We are contented: for than this
Language none more fluent is.
Nothing speaks our grief so well

As to speak nothing: come then, tell
Thy mind in tears, whoe'er thou be
That ow'st a name to misery:

Eyes are vocal, tears have tongues,
And there be words not made with lungs;
Sententious showers, oh, let them fall,
Their cadence is rhetorical.

Here's a theme will drink th' expense

Of all thy wat❜ry eloquence;

Weep then, only be exprest

Thus much, He's dead, and weep the rest.

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UPON THE DEATH OF MR HERRYS.

A PLANT of noble stem, forward and fair,
As ever whisper'd to the morning air,

Thrived in these happy grounds, the Earth's just pride,
Whose rising glories made such haste to hide

His head in clouds, as if in him alone

Impatient Nature had taught motion

To start from time, and cheerfully to fly

Before, and seize upon maturity:

Thus grew this gracious plant, in whose sweet shade
The sun himself oft wish'd to sit, and made

The morning Muses perch like birds, and sing
Among his branches, yea, and vow'd to bring
His own delicious phoenix from the blest
Arabia, there to build her virgin nest,

To hatch herself in; 'mongst his leaves, the day
Fresh from the rosy east rejoiced to play;

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To them she gave the first and fairest beam
That waited on her birth, she gave to them
The purest pearls that wept her ev'ning death;
Th' balmy Zephyrus got so sweet a breath
By often kissing them; and now begun
Glad time to ripen expectation:

The tim'rous maiden blossoms on each bough,

Peep'd forth from their first blushes; so that now
A thousand ruddy hopes smiled in each bud,
And flatter'd ev'ry greedy eye that stood
Fix'd in delight, as if already there

Those rare fruits dangled, whence the golden year
His crown expected, when (O Fate! O Time!
That seldom lett'st a blushing youthful prime
Hide his hot beams in shade of silver age;
So rare is hoary virtue) the dire rage
Of a mad storm these bloomy joys all tore,
Ravish'd the maiden blossoms, and down bore
The trunk; yet in this ground his precious root

Still lives, which when weak time shall be poured out
Into eternity, and circ'lar joys

Dance in an endless round, again shall rise

The fair son of an ever-youthful spring,
To be a shade for angels while they sing.
Meanwhile, whoe'er thou art that passest here,
Oh do thou water it with one kind tear!

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UPON THE DEATH OF THE MOST DESIRED
MR HERRYS.1

DEATH, what dost? Oh hold thy blow,
What thou dost thou dost not know.

Herrys' a friend of Crashaw's, a fellow of Pembroke Hall, from Essex.

Death, thou must not here be cruel,
This is Nature's choicest jewel.
This is he in whose rare frame
Nature labour'd for a name;

And meant to leave his precious feature,
The pattern of a perfect creature.

Joy of goodness, love of art,

Virtue wears him next the heart;
Him the Muses love to follow,
Him they call their Vice-Apollo;
Apollo, golden though thou be,
Th' art not fairer than is he,
Nor more lovely lift'st thy head,
Blushing from thine eastern bed,
The glories of thy youth ne'er knew
Brighter hopes than he can shew;
Why then should it e'er be seen,
That his should fade while thine is
And wilt thou (O cruel boast!)
Put poor Nature to such cost?
Oh 'twill undo our common mother,
To be at charge of such another:
What? think we to no other end
Gracious Heavens do use to send
Earth her best perfection,
But to vanish and be gone?
Therefore only give to-day,
To-morrow to be snatch'd away?
I've seen indeed the hopeful bud
Of a ruddy rose that stood
Blushing to behold the ray

Of the new saluted day,

(His tender top not fully spread)

green ?

The sweet dash of a shower now shed,

F

Invited him no more to hide
Within himself the purple pride
Of his forward flower, when lo,
While he sweetly 'gan to show

His swelling glories, Auster spied him,
Cruel Auster thither hied him,

And with the rush of one rude blast,
Shamed not spitefully to waste
All his leaves, so fresh, so sweet,
And lay them trembling at his feet.
I've seen the morning's lovely ray,
Hover o'er the new-born day,
With rosy wings so richly bright,
As if he scorn'd to think of night,
When a ruddy storm whose scowl
Made Heaven's radiant face look foul,
Call'd for an untimely night,

To blot the newly blossom'd light.
But were the rose's blush so rare,
Were the morning's smile so fair
As is he, nor cloud nor wind

But would be courteous, would be kind.

Spare him, Death! oh spare him then, Spare the sweetest among men!

Let not Pity with her tears,

Keep such distance from thine ears;
But oh thou wilt not, canst not spare,

Haste hath never time to hear;

Therefore if he needs must go,

And the Fates will have it so,
Softly may he be possest

Of his monumental rest.

Safe, thou dark home of the dead,
Safe, oh! hide his loved head.

For Pity's sake, oh hide him quite,
From his mother Nature's sight!
Lest, for the grief his loss may move,
All her births abortive prove.

ANOTHER.

IF ever Pity were acquainted
With stern Death, if e'er he fainted,

Or forgot the cruel vigour,

Of an adamantine rigour,

Here, oh here, we should have known it,

Here, or nowhere, he'd have shown it.
For he whose precious memory,
Bathes in tears of ev'ry eye:

He to whom our sorrow brings

All the streams of all her springs,
Was so rich in grace and nature,

In all the gifts that bless a creature,
The fresh hopes of his lovely youth
Flourish'd in so fair a growth,

So sweet the temple was, that shrined
The sacred sweetness of his mind,
That could the Fates know to relent,

Could they know what mercy meant,
Or had ever learn'd to bear,

The soft tincture of a tear,

Tears would now have flow'd so deep,

As might have taught Grief how to weep.
Now all their steely operation,

Would quite have lost the cruel fashion: