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My dearest friend, would I had dy'd for thee!
If once my griefs prove tedious too.
As sullen ghosts stalk speechless by
Where their hid treasures lie;
By friendship given of old to fame.
Whom the kind youth preferr'd to me;
And ev'n in that we did agree,
Wonder'd at us from above!
But search of deep Philosophy,
Wit, Eloquence, and Poetry,
The love betwixt us two?
Or your sad branches thicker join,
And into darkesome shades combine,
No whistling winds through the glad branches fly:
But all, with sad solemnity,
Mute and unmoved be, Mute as the grave wherein my friend does lie. To him my Muse made haste with every strain, Whilst it was new and warm yet from the brain : He lov'd my worthless rhymes, and, like a friend,
Would find out something to commend. Hence now, my Muse! thou canst not me delight:
Be this my latest verse,
With which I now adorn his hearse;
It rage and crackle there.
Cypress, which tombs does beautify:
Not Phæbus griev'd, so much as I, For him who first was made that mournful tree. Large was his soul; as large a soul as e'er Submitted to inform a body here ; High as the place 't was shortly' in heaven to have,
But low and humble as his grave : So high, that
there did come,
Conspicuous and great;
Triumphant o'er the sins of youth.
That shine with beams like flame,
Yet burn not with the same,
Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught,
In such a short mortality.
Still did the notions throng
About his eloquent tongue, Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit. So strong a wit did Nature to him frame, As all things but his judgment overcame; His judgment like the heavenly moon did show,
Tempering that mighty sea below. Oh! had he liv'd in Learning's world, what bound
Would have been able to control
His over-powering soul! We'ave lost in him arts that not yet are found.
His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit,
Retir'd, and gave to them their due:
Though his own searching mind before
Was so with notions written o'er
So many virtues join'd in him, as we
As much as they could ever teach.
And all their sacred motions steer,
Just like the first and highest sphere, Which wheels about, and turns all heaven one way. With as much zeal, devotion, piety, He always liv'd, as other saints do die. Still with his soul severe account he kept,
Weeping all debts out ere he slept:
Then down in peace and innocence he lay,
Like the sun's laborious light,
Which still in water sets at night, Unsullied with his journey of the day. Wondrous young man! why wert thou made so good, To be snatch'd hence ere better understood ? Snatch'd before half of thee enough was seen!
Thou ripe, and yet thy life but green! Nor could thy friends take their last sad farewell;
But danger and infectious death
Maliciously seiz'd on that breath Where life, spirit, pleasure, always us'd to dwell.
But happy thou, ta'en from this frantic age,
The place now only free from those.
And, wheresoe'er thou casts'st thy view,
Upon that white and radiant crew, See'st not a soul cloth'd with more light than thine. And, if the glorious saints cease not to know Their wretched friends who fight with life below, Thy flame to me does still the same abide,
Only more pure and rarefy'd. There, whilst immortal hymns thou dost rehearse,
Thou dost with holy pity see
Our dull and earthly poesy, Where grief and misery can be join'd with verse.
Th' uncomfortable shade
Mixt with the mourning willow's careful grey,
The melancholy Cowley lay:
That art can never imitate;
the ground; The shaken strings melodiously resound.
“ Art thou return'd at last," said she,
“ To this forsaken place and me? “ Thou prodigal ! who didst so loosely waste “Of all thy youthful years the good estate; “ Art thou return'd here, to repent too late, “ And gather husks of learning up at last, “Now the rich harvest-time of life is past,
“ And winter marches on so fast ? “But, when I meant t adopt thee for my son, “ And did as learn'd a portion assign, “As ever any of the mighty Nine
“ Had to their dearest children done ; “ When I resoly'd t'exalt thy' anointed name,
Among the spiritual lords of peaceful fame; “Thou changeling! thou, bewitch'd with noise and
show “ Wouldst into courts and cities from me go ; "Wouldst see the world abroad, and have a share * In all the follies and the tumults there :