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The MOURNER.
Upon the Death of my dear Father, Mr. W. S.
1659.
Let not the ranting Crew explode my Tears;
Nor stop my sighings with their Mocks and Jeers:
Such as lament in Sack for Father's dying,
'Till Eyes look red, then swear it came with crying:
Who to the Church such modish Mourners come,
As if they meant to revel o're the Tomb.
I leave that road, so that I now forbear
To strew his Grave, but with a gaudy tear.
For Drops of Ink are so that do distill
From a luxuriant, or too trim a Quill.
Nor let some think the grief is small, where time,
And such Composure is to build a Rhyme
Since David's Muse did never higher rise,
Than when it took its fountain from his Eyes;
And if in these Lines any Life can be,
Or can transmit it to Posterity;
'Tis but a just endeavour Life to give
To that lov'd Person, who did make me live.
Not that I think this power in my Verse,
(The common Hatchment now of every Herse)
But in his Vertues, which they would declare;
These give the life of which those hope a share.
For thus a Pen that limms a good man's story,
Improves its own, well as the subjects glory.
So every Duty is a Benefit,
And gains a blest reward for doing it,
I wish I could his Vertues imitate,
And praise together; such a lucky fate
Befell that Orator, who as he stood
Praising his vertuous Friend, himself turn'd good.
Nor stop my sighings with their Mocks and Jeers:
Such as lament in Sack for Father's dying,
'Till Eyes look red, then swear it came with crying:
Who to the Church such modish Mourners come,
As if they meant to revel o're the Tomb.
I leave that road, so that I now forbear
To strew his Grave, but with a gaudy tear.
For Drops of Ink are so that do distill
From a luxuriant, or too trim a Quill.
Nor let some think the grief is small, where time,
And such Composure is to build a Rhyme
32
Than when it took its fountain from his Eyes;
And if in these Lines any Life can be,
Or can transmit it to Posterity;
'Tis but a just endeavour Life to give
To that lov'd Person, who did make me live.
Not that I think this power in my Verse,
(The common Hatchment now of every Herse)
But in his Vertues, which they would declare;
These give the life of which those hope a share.
For thus a Pen that limms a good man's story,
Improves its own, well as the subjects glory.
So every Duty is a Benefit,
And gains a blest reward for doing it,
I wish I could his Vertues imitate,
And praise together; such a lucky fate
Befell that Orator, who as he stood
Praising his vertuous Friend, himself turn'd good.
His Zeal to God and Church glow'd with that heat
First Christians us'd, without the modern cheat.
Loyal to's Prince without the hope of gains,
And constant too in midst of loss and chains.
His Prayers were fervent, and his Faith was strong,
Still hop'd, although Rebellion prosper'd long.
At length the storm blew o're, the skyes did clear,
And light begun to gild our Hemisphere.
His breast with publick joy so over-flow'd,
His Soul was forc'd to leave its old aboad:
Yet like the dying Swan he tun'd his knell,
And with old Simeon sung his own farewell.
Thus the long look'd-for Prospect Moses gain'd;
He saw, but ne're injoy'd the Promis'd Land.
First Christians us'd, without the modern cheat.
Loyal to's Prince without the hope of gains,
And constant too in midst of loss and chains.
His Prayers were fervent, and his Faith was strong,
Still hop'd, although Rebellion prosper'd long.
At length the storm blew o're, the skyes did clear,
And light begun to gild our Hemisphere.
His breast with publick joy so over-flow'd,
His Soul was forc'd to leave its old aboad:
Yet like the dying Swan he tun'd his knell,
And with old Simeon sung his own farewell.
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He saw, but ne're injoy'd the Promis'd Land.
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