Poems By the most deservedly Admired Mrs Katherine Philips: The matchless Orinda. To which is added Monsieur Corneille's Pompey & Horace Tragedies. With several other Translations out of French |
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To my dearest friend Mrs. A. Owen, upon her greatest loss.
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To my dearest friend Mrs. A. Owen, upon her greatest loss.
As when two sister rivelets who creptFrom that dark bed of snow wherein they slept,
By private distant currents under ground
Have by Mæanders eithers bosom found,
They sob aloud and break down what withstood,
Swoln by their own embraces to a flood:
So when my simpathy for thy dear grief
Had brought me near, in hope to give relief,
I found my sorrow heightned when so joyn'd,
And thine increas'd by being so combin'd,
Since to the bleeding hopes of many years,
I could contribute nothing but my tears;
Fears which to thy sad fate were justly due,
And to his loss, by all who that loss knew;
For thy Charistus was so much above
The Eloquence of all our grief and love,
That it would be Injurious to his Hearse
To think to crowd his worth into a verse.
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Who with more ease and Justice weep then write,
He was all that which History can boast,
Or bolder Poetry had ere engross'd.
So pious, just, noble, discreet, and kind,
Their best Ideas knew not how to find.
His strong Religion not on trifles spent,
Was useful, firm, early, and eminent,
Never betray'd to indigested heat,
Nor yet entic'd from what was safely great.
And this so soon, as if he had foresight,
He must begin betimes whose noon is night.
His vertue was his choice, and not his chance,
Not mov'd by Age, nor born of Ignorance.
He well knew whom, and what he did believe,
And for his Faith did not dispute, but live,
And liv'd just like his infant Innocence,
But that was crown'd with free obedience.
How did he scorn design, and equally
How much abhorr'd this Ages vanity!
He neither lik'd it's tumults, nor its Joys,
Slighted alike Earths pleasures, and her noise.
But unconcern'd in both, in his own mind
Alone could power and satisfaction find.
A treasury of merit there lay hid,
Which though he ne're confes'd, his actions did.
His modesty unto his vertue lent
At once a shadow and an ornament.
But what could hide those filial rites he paid;
How much he lov'd how prudently obey'd?
How as a Brother did he justly share
His kind concern betwixt respect and care?
And to a wife how fully did he prove
How wisely he could judge, how fondly love?
As Husbands serious, but as Lovers kind,
He valu'd all of her, but lov'd her mind;
And with a passion made this Riddle true,
'Twas ever perfect, and yet still it grew.
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He durst do any thing, but what was ill;
Unlike those Gallants who so use their time,
As oppertunity to act their crime,
And lost in wine or vanity when young,
They dye too soon, because they liv'd too long.
But he has hallowed so his early death,
'Tis almost shame to draw a longer breath.
I can no more, they that can must have learn'd
To be more eloquent, and less concern'd.
But all that Noble Justice to his Name
His own good Angel will commit to Fame.
Could grief recall this happiness again,
Of thy dear sorrow I would nere complain,
But such an opportunity would take
To grieve an useless life out for thy sake.
But since it cannot, I must pray thee live,
That so much of Charistus may survive,
And that thou do no act so harsh to Love,
As that his glory should thy sorrow move:
Endure thy loss till Heav'n shall it repay,
Upon thy last and glorious wedding-day,
When thou shalt know him more, and quickly find
The love increas'd by being so refin'd,
And there possess him without parting fears,
As I my friendship free from future tears.
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