Sickness would have gladly been, Sick himself to have saved him : And his fever wish'd to prove Burning only in his love;
Him when Wrath itself had seen, Wrath itself had lost his spleen; Grim Destruction, here amazed, Instead of striking would have gazed; Even the iron-pointed pen,
That notes the tragic dooms of men, Wet with tears still'd from the eyes, Of the flinty destinies,
Would have learn'd a softer style, And have been ashamed to spoil His life's sweet story, by the haste, Of a cruel stop ill placed.
In the dark volume of our fate,
Whence each leaf of life hath date,
Where in sad particulars,
The total sum of man appears;
And the short clause of mortal breath,
Bound in the period of death:
In all the book, if anywhere
Such a term as this, 'Spare here,'
Could have been found, 'twould have been read,
Writ in white letters o'er his head:
Or close unto his name annext,
The fair gloss of a fairer text. In brief, if any one were free, He was that one, and only he.
But he, alas! ev'n he is dead, And our hopes' fair harvest spread In the dust! Pity, now spend All the tears that Grief can lend:
In his ashes all her pride,
With this inscription o'er his head;
All hope of never dying here lies dead.'
PASSENGER, whoe'er thou art, ω Stay awhile, and let thy heart Take acquaintance of this stone, Before thou passest further on; This stone will tell thee, that beneath Is entomb'd the crime of Death; The ripe endowments of whose mind, Left his years so much behind, That numb'ring of his virtues' praise, Death lost the reck'ning of his days; And believing what they told, Imagined him exceeding old; In him perfection did set forth, The strength of her united worth; Him his wisdom's pregnant growth Made so rev'rend, ev'n in youth, That in the centre of his breast (Sweet as is the phoenix' nest) Ev'ry reconciled grace
Had their gen'ral meeting place; In him goodness joy'd to see Learning learn humility;
The splendour of his birth and blood, Was but the gloss of his own good,
The flourish of his sober youth Was the pride of naked truth: In composure of his face Lived a fair, but manly grace;
His mouth was rhetoric's best mould, His tongue the touchstone of her gold; What word soe'er his breath kept warm, Was no word now but a charm:
For all persuasive graces thence Suck'd their sweetest influence;
His virtue that within had root, Could not choose but shine without; And th' heart-bred lustre of his worth, At each corner peeping forth, Pointed him out in all his ways, Circled round in his own rays: That to his sweetness all men's eyes Were vow'd love's flaming sacrifice.
Him while fresh and fragrant time Cherish'd in his golden prime; Ere Hebe's hand had overlaid
His smooth cheeks with a downy shade; The rush of Death's unruly wave, Swept him off into his grave.
Enough now; (if thou canst) pass on, For now (alas!) not in this stone (Passenger, whoe'er thou art)
Is he entomb'd, but in thy heart.
AN EPITAPH UPON HUSBAND AND WIFE,
WHO DIED AND WERE BURIED TOGETHER.
To these, whom Death again did wed, This grave's the second marriage-bed. For though the hand of Fate could force, "Twixt soul and body a divorce,
It could not sever man and wife, Because they both lived but one life; Peace, good reader, do not weep; Peace, the lovers are asleep! They (sweet turtles) folded lie,
In the last knot that love could tie. Let them sleep, let them sleep on, Till this stormy night be gone, And th' eternal morrow dawn; Then the curtains will be drawn, And they wake into a light, Whose day shall never die in night.
AN EPITAPH UPON DOCTOR BROOK.1
A BROOK, whose stream so great, so good, Was loved, was honour'd as a flood, Whose banks the Muses dwelt upon, More than their own Helicon, Here at length hath gladly found A quiet passage under ground; Meanwhile his loved banks, now dry, The Muses with their tears supply.
UPON MR STANINOUGH'S DEATH.
DEAR relics of a dislodged soul, whose lack Makes many a mourning paper put on black; Oh stay a while ere thou draw in thy head, And wind thyself up close in thy cold bed! Stay but a little while, until I call
A summons, worthy of thy funeral.
Come then, youth, beauty, and blood, all ye soft powers, Whose silken flatteries swell a few fond hours
Into a false eternity; come, man,
(Hyperbolised nothing!) know thy span;
Take thine own measure here; down, down, and bow Before thyself in thy idea, thou
Huge emptiness, contract thy bulk, and shrink
All thy wild circle to a point! Oh, sink
Lower and lower yet; till thy small size,
Call Heaven to look on thee with narrow eyes; Lesser and lesser yet, till thou begin
To show a face fit to confess thy kin,
Thy neighbourhood to nothing! here put on Thyself in this unfeign'd reflection;
Here, gallant ladies, this impartial glass
(Through all your painting) shows you your own face. These death-seal'd lips are they dare give the lie, To the proud hopes of poor mortality: These curtain'd windows, this self-prison'd eye, Out-stares the lids of large-look'd tyranny: This posture is the brave one; this that lies Thus low, stands up (methinks) thus, and defies The world-All daring dust and ashes, only you Of all interpreters read Nature true.
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