Classic Poem

Tush, tush! he is not dead; I lately spide
One smile at's first-born Sons birth; and a bride
Into her heart did entertain delight
At the approach of her wish'd wedding night
All which delights (if he were dead) would turn
To griefe; yea mirth it self be forc'd to mourn.
Inspired Poets would forget to laugh,
And write at once his and Mirths Epitaph.
Sighs would engross our breath, there would appear
Anthems of joy, lymbeck'd into a tear:
Each face would be his death-bed; in each eye
'Twere easie then to read his Elegy;
Each soul would be close mourner, each tongue tell
Stories prick'd out to th'tune o'th' passing bell;
The World redrown'd in tears, each heart would be
A marble stone, each stone a Niobe .
But he alas is gone, nor do we know
To pay for loss of him deserving wo;
Like Bankrupts in our grief, because we may
Not halfe we owe him, give, we'l nothing pay.
For should our tears like the Ocean issue forth,
They could not swell adaequate to his worth:
So far his worth's above our knowledge that
We only know we've lost, we know not what
The mourning Heaven, beholding such a dearth
Of tears, showrs rain to liquify the earth,
That we may see from its adulterate womb,
If it be possible, a second come
Till then 'tis our unhappiness, we can't
Know what good dwelt in him, but by the want
He was no whirlegig Lect'rer of the times,
That from a heel-block to a pulpit climes,
And there such stuff among their Audients break,
They seem to have mouth, and words, yet cannot speak
Nor such as into pasquill pulpits come
With thundering nonsence, but to beat the drum
To civil wars, whose texts and doctrines run
As if they were o'th' separation;
And by their spiritual law have marri'd been
Without a ring, because they were no kin.
Knowledg and zeal in him so sweetly met,
His pulpit seem'd a second Olivet ,
Where from his lips he would deliver things
As though some Seraphin had clap'd his wings
His painfull sermons were so neatly dress'd,
As if an Anthem were in prose express'd;
Divinity and Art were so united,
As if in him both were Hermaphrodited.
Oh what an ex'llent Surgeon has he been
To set a conscience (out of joynt by sin)
He at one blow could wound and heal; we all
Wondred to see a purge a cordial.
His Manna-breathing sermons often have
Given all our good thoughts life, our bad a grave
Satan , and Sin , were never more put to't
Then when they met with their still-conquering Shute .
His life was the use of's doctrine; so 'twas known
That Shute , and Saint, were convertible grown:
He did live Sermons; the prophane were vext
To see his actions comments on his text.
So imitable his vertues did appear
As if each place to him a pulpit were.
He was himself a Synod, ours had been
Void (had he liv'd) or but an idle dinn
His presence so divine, that Heaven might be
(If it were possible) more Heavenly
And now we well perceive with what intent
Death made his soul become non-resident.
'Twas to make him (such honours to him given)
Regis Professor to the King of Heaven.
By whom hee's prelated above the skies,
And the whole World's his See t'Episcopize;
So that (me thinks) one star more doth appear
In our Horizon since his being there;
Death's grown tyrannical by imitation
'Cause he was learned by a sequestration
He took his living; but for's benefice
Hee is rewarded with eternal bliss
Let's all prepare to follow him, for hee's
But gone to Glorys school, to take degrees.