Here love and peace imbrace, there meekness, sanctity: Below at distance sits humility;
See yonder charity, with arms expanded,
With tender bowels open-handed;
There patience stoops, and bends her shoulders low
To bear that load the unworthy world will throw
On wronged innocence. Then tap'ring to the sky
You'l see pure zeal, devotion, piety.
All these unfucus'd, candid, and serene;
Not like the modern garb, to serve the scene
Of ends and interests; mere pageantry,
To gull such souls as see with half an eye.
Such stales of vertue's, but a saint-like cheat,
Glasse to his chrystal, glowworms to his heat.
Was ever soul ravish'd in meditation,
Wound up on high in contemplation
Such know the beating of thy pulse whose traffick
Was wholly so cherubick and seraphick,
That it evince, 'tis not hæretical
To say, angels may be corporeal.
His holy life, a silent check to all
The rout of vices, was: his pen
His name did more perfume the church, than
Of Stacte, Onycha, and Galbanum
Did Moses' sacred tent; and certainly
Whilst Hall's remembered, Bishop cannot die.
And that will be, till books shall be calcin'd,
With the elements above; and all refin'd,
At the last conflagration--
Learned Armagh to honour this his day,
His Usher was, and heaven-ward led the way.
When aged Durham + shall remove his station,
How great, how glorious a Constellation
* Abp. Usher. + Bp. Morton.
In th' orb empyreal will they make, those three
That will outshine the radiant Cassiopee.
But stay: these blundering lines do wrong the blest,
Let Yare and Isca murmur out the rest:
Only our dropping tears shall never stint,
Till on his marble they these words imprint:
Maugre the peevish world's complaint,
Here lies a Bishop and a saint.
Whom Ashby bred, and Granta nurs'd
Whom Halsted, and old Waltham first
To rouz the stupid world from sloth,
Heard thund'ring with a golden mouth,
Whom Wor'ster next did dignifie,
And honoured with her Deanry:
Whom Eron lent a mitred wreath,
And Norwich, where he ceas'd to breath.
These all with one joint voice do cry,
Death's vain attempt, what doth it mean?
My Son, my Pupil, Pastor, Dean,
My rev'rend Father, cannot die.
IN OBITUM AMPLISSIMI PATRIS J. H. EPISCOPI
INDULTE coeli tam benigno munere,
Quantis tuorum luctibus refers pedem,
Facunde Præsul! quo domante multiceps
Pecu, profanas ordini intentans sacro
Latè ruinas, concidit; quo vindice,
Census secundi Flamen anctus infulâ
Nondum superbit; siquibus distinguere
Humana brutis arma jam cordi fiet;
Mentisq; doctæ si tropea viribus
Nequam protervis præferant. Olim tuos
Sensit lacertos factio Brownistica:
Antistes ille septicolli culmine,
Superbus olim sensit. Ut tantùm cluat
Sagata virtus, neutiquam toga minor
Incedis, hinc te duplicis serti decus,
Oliva, laurus, gloriâ pari beat.
Tricisque præpedita conscientia
Quàm dexter adsis perpetim fatebitur,
Quàm luculentâ nubilam ducas fide,
Cujusq; scripti quæ venusta lumina !
Qualésque nervi! cuncta quàm normaliter
Concinna, queis sunt attributa partibus!
Piâq; suavitate quem non detinent!
Sed quæ Camæna, dulcibus fastigiis
Dignanda coeli, pergat exiles domos
Rectoris alti, spiritus et accolas
Referre tecum? quando penè libera
Mens jam senilis corticem perrumpere,
Cœpit catastæ, et limpido vesci æthere,
O quanta pomis indidem mysteria!
At vita qualis sanctitatis! quàm pii
Foecunda amoris! quámq; nullis seculi
Exulcerata cladibus, quas ordine
Longo furentes, miles infractus pati!
Lætisque possis impiger cervicibus.
Partes in omnes qui volet te prosequi
Laudum canenti quanta cresceret seges!
Sed nos Galenus.
Instantibus amicis extempore profudit,
TO MASTER JOSUAH SYLVESTER, OF HIS BARTAS METAPHRASED.
I DARE confess, of muses more than nine,
Nor list, nor can I envy none but thine.
She, drencht alone in Sion's sacred spring
Her Maker's praise hath sweetly chose to sing,
And reacheth nearest th' angel's notes above;
Nor lists to sing or tales or wars or love.
One while I find her, in her nimble flight,
Cutting the brazen spheres of heaven bright:
Thence, straight she glides, before I be aware
Through the three regions of the liquid air:
Thence rushing downe, through Nature's closet door,
She ransacks all her grandame's secret store;
And diving to the darkness of the deep,
Sees there what wealth the waves in prison keep;
And, what she sees above, below, between,
She shows and sings to others ears and eyne.
"Tis true, thy muse another's steps doth press
The more's her pain, nor is her praise the less.
Freedom gives scope unto the roving thought;
Which, by restraint, is curb'd. Who wonders aught,
That feet unfettered, walken far, or fast?
Which, pent with chains, mote want their wonted haste.
Thou followest Bartasses diviner streine;
And singst his numbers in his native vein.
Bartas was some french angel, girt with bayes
And thou, a Bartas art, in English lays.
Whether is more! me seems (the sooth to sayn)
One Bartas speaks in tongues,-in nations twain.
|