 | Poems (1872) |  |
II. FUNERAL ELEGIES.
131
ELEGY ON MISTRISS BOULSTRED.
Death, be not proud; thy hand gave not this blow,
Sin was her captive, whence thy power doth flow;
The executioner of wrath thou art,
But to destroy the just is not thy part.
Thy comming, terrour, anguish, grief denounces;
Her happy state, courage, ease, joy pronounces.
From out the crystal palace of her brest
The clearer soul was call'd to endless rest—
Not by the thundering voice wherewith God threats,
But as with crownèd saints in heaven He treats—
And, waited on by angels, home was brought,
To joy that—it through many dangers sought—
The key of mercy gently did unlock
The doors 'twixt heaven and it, when life did knock.
Sin was her captive, whence thy power doth flow;
132
But to destroy the just is not thy part.
Thy comming, terrour, anguish, grief denounces;
Her happy state, courage, ease, joy pronounces.
From out the crystal palace of her brest
The clearer soul was call'd to endless rest—
Not by the thundering voice wherewith God threats,
But as with crownèd saints in heaven He treats—
And, waited on by angels, home was brought,
To joy that—it through many dangers sought—
The key of mercy gently did unlock
The doors 'twixt heaven and it, when life did knock.
Nor boast, the fairest frame was made thy prey,
Because to mortal eyes it did decay;
A better witness than thou art assures
That, though dissolv'd, it yet a space endures;
No dram thereof shall want or loss sustain,
When her best soul inhabits it again.
Go, then, to people curst before they were,
Their souls in triumph to thy conquest bear.
Glory not thou thy self in these hot tears,
Which our face, not for her, but our harm wears:
The mourning livery given by Grace, not thee,
Which wills our souls in these streams washt should be;
And on our hearts, her memorie's best tomb,
In this her epitaph doth write thy doom.
Blind were those eyes saw not how bright did shine
Through fleshe's misty vail those beams divine;
Deaf were the eares not charm'd with that sweet sound
Which did i' the spirit's instructed voice abound;
Of flint the conscience, did not yeeld and melt
At what in her last act it saw and felt.
Because to mortal eyes it did decay;
A better witness than thou art assures
That, though dissolv'd, it yet a space endures;
No dram thereof shall want or loss sustain,
When her best soul inhabits it again.
Go, then, to people curst before they were,
Their souls in triumph to thy conquest bear.
Glory not thou thy self in these hot tears,
Which our face, not for her, but our harm wears:
The mourning livery given by Grace, not thee,
Which wills our souls in these streams washt should be;
And on our hearts, her memorie's best tomb,
In this her epitaph doth write thy doom.
Blind were those eyes saw not how bright did shine
Through fleshe's misty vail those beams divine;
133
Which did i' the spirit's instructed voice abound;
Of flint the conscience, did not yeeld and melt
At what in her last act it saw and felt.
Weep not, nor grudg then, to have lost her sight,
Taught thus, our after-staye's but a short night:
But by all souls, not by corruption choaked,
Let in high-raisèd notes that power be 'invoked;
Calm the rough seas by which she sails to rest,
From sorrows here to a 'kingdom ever blest.
And teach this hymn of her with joy, and sing,
The grave no conquest gets, Death hath no sting.
Taught thus, our after-staye's but a short night:
But by all souls, not by corruption choaked,
Let in high-raisèd notes that power be 'invoked;
Calm the rough seas by which she sails to rest,
From sorrows here to a 'kingdom ever blest.
And teach this hymn of her with joy, and sing,
The grave no conquest gets, Death hath no sting.
| Poems (1872) | |