 | Poems |  |
35
On the death of the much admired and much lamented, Mr. Francis Quarles.
Amongst that solemne Traine of Friends, which singThy Dirge (great Soule) and to thy Name do bring,
As to some shrine, the sacrifice of praise,
Daigne to accept these course and home-spun Layes:
Alas, what can the world expect from me,
As tribute to thy Hearse, since if there be
Within me any flame, or heat divine,
That warms my brest, 'twas kindled first by thine;
And from that pure and active Fire did come,
Which is lockt up i'th Casquet of thy Tomb,
Whose heat (perchance) may thaw my barren eyes,
And make them shed some watrie Obsequies,
But cannot make my drowsie Fancie flame,
In sad and pious raptures to thy Name;
Or light some Poem up, whose glimmering rayes,
About thy Name in time to come might blaze;
Or if it could, that sickly Flame would be,
But a dim Index to thy memorie,
And only here remaine like those few bright
Streaks in the aire, when the expiring light
Is blind with darknesse, and the day is done,
To tell the world that there has been a Sun.
As he that would disband the Diamond, must
Encounter it with its owne proper dust:
So he that would enshrine thy Name in Verse,
Or strew some Epitaph upon thy Hearse,
Can never any pure, or noble fire,
Into his dull unactive thoughts inspire,
Vnlesse that Fire his Fancie burnes with, bee
First lighted by a spark that flew from thee;
And as when he that frames a watch, would see
What loose distemper, or infirmitie,
36
Or with what pace the sickly pulse does beat,
Straight to the Sun applies his eye, and can
Cure the disease by his Meridian:
So he that would write well, and write of thee,
And regularly winde up an Elegie,
And in such equall poise his phansie set,
The pulse might with well-paced numbers beat,
Must all his lines proportion, and make fit
To goe by the Meridian of thy wit.
Thus from the duskie confines of thy urne,
Thou shalt again to th' bankrupt world return:
And after death (Fame shall thee so preferre)
Be to thy selfe thy own Executer,
That all our summes of wit may seem to be
But onely Legacies paid in by thee.
| Poems | |