Classic Poem

When to a Nations loss, the Vertuous dye,
There's justly due, from every hand and eye,
That can or write, or weep, an Elegy.

Which though it be the poorest, cheapest way,
The Debt we owe, great merits to defray,
Yet, it is almost all, that most men pay.

And, these are Monuments of so short date,
That, with their birth, they oft receive their fate:
Dying with those whom they would celebrate.

And, though to Verse great reverence is due;
Yet, what most Poets write, proves so untrue,
It renders truth in Verse, suspected too.

Something more sacred then, and more intire,
The memories of Vertuous men require,
Then what may with their Funeral-torch expire.

This, History can give: to which alone
The priviledge to mate oblivion
Is granted, when deny'd to brass and stone.

Wherein, my Friend, you have a hand so sure,
Your truths so candid are, your stile so pure,
That what you write may Envies search endure.

Your Pen, disdaining to be brib'd or prest,
Flows without vanity or interest:
A Vertue with which few good Pens are blest.

How happy was my Father then! to see
Those men he lov'd, by him he lov'd, to be
Rescu'd from frailties, and mortality.

Wotton and Donne , to whom his soul was knit:
Those twins of Vertue, Eloquence, and Wit,
He saw in Fame's eternal Annals writ;

Where one has fortunately found a place,
More faithful to him than his Marble was:
Which eating age, nor fire, shall e're deface.

A Monument! that, as it has, shall last
And prove a Monument to that defac't;
It self, but with the world, not to be rac'd.

And even, in their flowry Characters,
My Fathers grave, part of your Friendship shares:
For you have honour'd his in strewing theirs.

Thus, by an office, though particular,
Vertues whole Common-weal obliged are;
For, in a vertuous act, all good men share.

And, by this act, the world is taught to know,
That the true friendship we to merit owe
Is not discharg'd by complement, and show.

But yours is Friendship of so pure a kind,
From all mean ends, and interest so refin'd,
It ought to be a pattern to mankind.

For whereas most mens friendships here beneath,
Do perish with their friends expiring breath,
Yours proves a Friendship living after Death:

By which the generous Wotton , reverend Donne ,
Soft Herbert , and the Churches Champion,
Hooker , are rescued from oblivion.

For though they each of them his time so spent,
As rais'd unto himself a Monument,
With which Ambition might rest well content!

Yet their great works, though they can never dye,
And are in truth superlatively high,
Are no just scale to take their vertues by;

Because they show not how th' Almighties grace,
By various and more admirable ways,
Brought them to be the Organs of his praise.

But what their humble modesty wou'd hide,
And was by any other means deny'd,
Is by your love and diligence supply'd.

Wotton , a nobler soul was never bred!
You, by your narratives most even thred,
Through all his Labyrinths of Life have led;

Through his degrees of Honour, and of Arts,
Brought him secure from Envies venom'd darts,
Which are still level'd at the greatest parts;

Through all th' employments of his Wit and Spirit,
Whose great effects these kingdoms still inherit;
The trials then, now trophies of his merit:

Nay, through disgrace, which oft the worthiest have;
Through all state-tempests, through each wind and wave,
And laid him in an honourable grave.

And yours, and the whole Worlds beloved Donne ,
When he a long and wild carere had run
To the Meridian of his glorious Sun:

And being then an object of much ruth,
Led on by vanities, error, and youth,
Was long e're he did find the way of truth.

By the same Clew, after his youthful swing,
To serve at his Gods Altar here you bring,
Where an once-wanton-Muse doth Anthems sing.

And through by Gods most powerful grace alone
Hix heart was setled in Religion:
Yet 'tis by you we know how it was done;

And know, that having crucifi'd vanities,
And fixt his hope, he clos'd up his own eyes,
And then, your Friend, a Saint and Preacher dyes.

The meek, and learned Hooker too, almost
I' th' Churches ruines over-whelm'd and lost,
Is, by your Pen, recover'd from his dust.

And Herbert : he whose education,
Manners, and parts, by high applauses blown,
Was deeply tainted with Ambition;

And fitted for a Court, made that his aim;
At last, without regard to Birth or Name,
For a poor Country-Cure does all disclaim;

Where, with a soul compos'd of Harmonies,
Like a sweet Swan , he warbles as he dies,
His Makers praise, and his own obsequies.

All this you tell us, with so good success,
That our oblig'd posterity shall profess
T' have been your Friend, was a great happiness.

And now! When many worthier would be proud
T' appear before you, if they were allow'd,
I take up room enough to serve a crowd;

Where, to commend what you have choicely writ,
Both my poor testimony and my wit
Are equally invalid, and unfit:

Yet this, and much more, is most justly due:
Were what I write as elegant as true,
To the best friend I now or ever knew.

But, my dear friend, 'tis so, that you and I,
By a condition of mortality,
With all this great, and more proud world, must dye:

In which estate, I ask no more of Fame,
Nor other Monument of Honour claim,
Than that, of your true Friend , t' advance my name.

And if your many merits shall have bred
An abler Pen, to write your Life when dead,
I think, an honester cannot be read.