A Collection of Miscellanies Consisting of Poems, Essays, Discourses & Letters, Occasionally Written. By John Norris ... The Second Edition Corrected |
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To the Memory of my dear Neece M. C.
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 | A Collection of Miscellanies |  |
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To the Memory of my dear Neece M. C.
I
By tears to ease my grief I've try'd,And Philosophick med'cins have applied;
From Books and Company I've sought relief,
I've used all Spells and Charms of Art
To Lay this Troubler of my heart;
I have, yet I'm still haunted by my grief.
These give some ease, but yet I find
'Tis Poetry at last must cure my mind.
II
Come then, t' assawage my pain I'l tryBy the sweet magick of thy Harmony.
Begin my Muse, but 'twill be hard I know
For thee my Genius to screw
To heights that to my Theme are due,
The weight of grief has set my Soul so low.
To grace her death my strains should be
As far above Mortality as she.
III
Is she then dead, and can it beThat I can live to write her Elegy?
I hoped, since 'twas not to my Soul deny'd
To sympathize in all the pain
Which she tho long, did well sustain,
'T have carri'd on the sympathy, and dy'd,
But Death was so o'repleas'd I see
At this rich spoil, that she neglected me.
103
IV
Yet has sh' of all things made me bare,But Life, nor was it kindness here to spare.
So when th' Almighty would t' inform mankind
His Eastern Hero's patience try
With the Extreams of misery;
He gave this Charge to the malicious Fiend;
Of all Life's Blessings him deprive,
Vex him with all thy Plagues, but let him live.
V
Yet I will live (sweet Soul) to saveThy name, since thee I cannot from the grave,
I will not of this burthen Life complain
Tho tears than verses faster flow,
Tho I am plung'd in grief and woe,
And like th' inspired Sibylls write in pain.
To dye for friends is thought to be
Heroick, but I'll Life endure for thee.
VI
'Tis just, since I in thee did liveThat thou should'st Life and Fame from me receive.
But how shall I this Debt of Justice pay?
The Colours of my Poetry
Are all too dead to Copy thee,
'Twill be Abuse the best that I can say.
Nature that wrought thy curious frame
Will find it hard to draw again the same.
VII
In Council the Almighty sateWhen he did man his Master-piece create.
104
In making thee she wrought for Fame,
And with slow progress drew thy frame,
As he that painted for Eternity.
In her best Mould she did thee cast,
But thou wast over-wrought, and made too fine to last.
VIII
Thy Soul the Saint of this fair ShrineWas pure without Alloy, and all divine.
Active and nimble as Æthereal light,
Kind as the Angels are above
Who live on Harmony and Love;
The Rays thou shott'st were warm, as well as bright:
So mild so pleasing was thy fire,
That none could envy, and all must admire.
IX
Sickness to whose strong Siege resignThe best of Natures did but set forth thine.
Wisely thou did'st thy Passions all Controul,
And like a Martyr in the fire
Devout and patient did'st expire,
Pains could expel, but not untune thy Soul.
Thou bore'st them all so Moderately
As if thou mean'st to teach how I should mourn for thee.
X
No wonder such a noble mindHer way again to Heaven so soon could find.
Angels, as 'tis but seldom they appear,
So neither do they make long stay,
They do but visit, and away,
Tis pain for them t' endure our too gross Sphere.
We could not hope for a Reprieve,
She must dye soon, that made such haste to live.
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XI
Heaven did thy lovely Presence want,And therefore did so early thee transplant.
Not 'cause he dar'd not trust thee longer here,
No, such sweet Innocence as thine
To take a Stain was too divine,
But sure he Coveted to have thee there;
For meaner Souls he could delay,
Impatient for thine, he would not stay.
XII
The Angels too did covet theeT' advance their Love, their Bliss, their Harmony.
They'd lately made an Anthem to their King,
An Anthem which contain'd a part
All sweet, and full of Heavenly Art,
Which none but thy Harmonious Soul could sing.
'Twas all Heaven's Vote thou should'st be gone
To fill th' Almighty's Quire, and to adorn his Throne.
XIII
Others when gone t' eternal restAre said t' augment the number of the Blest.
Thou dost their very Happiness improve,
Out of the Croud they single thee,
Fond of thy sweet Society,
Thou wast our Darling, and art so above.
Why should we of thy loss Complain
Which is not only thine, but Heaven's gain?
XIV
There dost thou sit in Bliss and light,Whilest I thy Praise in mournful numbers write.
106
And find'st no leisure in thy Bliss
Ought to admire below, but this.
How I can mourn, when thou dost Anthems sing?
Thy Pardon my sweet Saint I implore,
My Soul ne're disconform'd from thine before.
XV
Now will I now: My tears shall flowNo more, I will be blest 'cause thou art so.
I'll borrow Comfort from thy happy state,
In Bliss I'll sympathize with thee
As once I did in misery,
And by Reflection will be Fortunate.
I'll practise now, what's done above,
And by thy happy state my own improve.
| A Collection of Miscellanies | |