 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
184
ON THE DEATH of Mr. JOHN WHITESIDE
Experimental Philosopher IN OXFORD.
Quis desiderio sit Pudor aut Modus
Tam Chari Capitis?
Hor.
Tam Chari Capitis?
Hor.
Ye Sons of Science! who with prying Eye
The mazy Deeps of Nature can descry;
Ye, who have seen the wondrous Man display
His noble Art, where Reason led the Way;
Ye, who have seen him with a nicer View
By Demonstration prove his Doctrine true.
Forgive the Muse, if weak the Numbers flow,
Alas! they labour with a Weight of Woe.
The mazy Deeps of Nature can descry;
Ye, who have seen the wondrous Man display
His noble Art, where Reason led the Way;
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By Demonstration prove his Doctrine true.
Forgive the Muse, if weak the Numbers flow,
Alas! they labour with a Weight of Woe.
Who now shall give Mysterious Nature Laws,
And from Effects deduce the hidden Cause;
Who now shall by Experiment declare
To wondring Youth, the Nature of the Air?
Who now shall teach why lighter Parts ascend,
And grosser Bodies to the Centre tend?
Why round the Sun still other Suns advance,
Fix'd and unerring in their Mystick Dance?
Since He is gone, who shew'd these settled Rules,
The Lamp of Science, and the Pride of Schools!
And from Effects deduce the hidden Cause;
Who now shall by Experiment declare
To wondring Youth, the Nature of the Air?
Who now shall teach why lighter Parts ascend,
And grosser Bodies to the Centre tend?
Why round the Sun still other Suns advance,
Fix'd and unerring in their Mystick Dance?
Since He is gone, who shew'd these settled Rules,
The Lamp of Science, and the Pride of Schools!
Thee, Whiteside! Thee the Sons of Oxford mourn,
And Isis Shores the sad Complaints return:
The lonely Dome with Sorrow now they view,
But now no more the noble Task pursue,
Since now that noble Task is all extinct in You.
And Isis Shores the sad Complaints return:
The lonely Dome with Sorrow now they view,
But now no more the noble Task pursue,
Since now that noble Task is all extinct in You.
186
Thou, who couldst Nature's lowest Depths descry,
And count the well-known Wonders of the Skie;
Say, Learned Whiteside! dear, lamented Shade!
Since now thy last Experiment is made,
Say, what is Death? is Death a real Pain?
Or only what the Stings of Conscience feign?
Is it a Rest from all our Human Woes,
Where Peace and Silence keep their soft Repose?
Or is it by our Fancy Monstrous made,
And painted Black, to make us more affraid?
Say, is not Death a harmless, lambent Flame,
What the Bad fly from, and the Righteous claim?
'Tis Something sure, but what we cannot know,
'Tis Something, which we all must undergo.
And count the well-known Wonders of the Skie;
Say, Learned Whiteside! dear, lamented Shade!
Since now thy last Experiment is made,
Say, what is Death? is Death a real Pain?
Or only what the Stings of Conscience feign?
Is it a Rest from all our Human Woes,
Where Peace and Silence keep their soft Repose?
Or is it by our Fancy Monstrous made,
And painted Black, to make us more affraid?
Say, is not Death a harmless, lambent Flame,
What the Bad fly from, and the Righteous claim?
'Tis Something sure, but what we cannot know,
'Tis Something, which we all must undergo.
Then here let all our nice Enquiries End,
For Death and only Death can be our Friend:
'Tis the sure Haven of a Soul distress'd,
Where all the warring Passions are at Rest:
'Tis here the Captive lays his Burthen down,
And dreads no more the awful Monarch's Frown:
'Tis here the Monarch bends the Subject Knee,
'Tis here he learns the Weakness of his Plea,
And stands convinc'd there's One, that's Greater still than He.
For Death and only Death can be our Friend:
'Tis the sure Haven of a Soul distress'd,
Where all the warring Passions are at Rest:
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And dreads no more the awful Monarch's Frown:
'Tis here the Monarch bends the Subject Knee,
'Tis here he learns the Weakness of his Plea,
And stands convinc'd there's One, that's Greater still than He.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |