My sweet Companion, and my gentle Peere,
Why hast thou left me thus unkindly here,
Thy end for every and my Life to moan;
O thou hast left me all alone!
Thy Soul and Body when Deaths Agonie
Besieg'd around thy noble, heart,
Did not with more reluctance part
Then I my dearest Friend, do part from Thee.
My dearest Friend, would I had dy'd for thee!
Life and this World henceforth will tedious bee.
Nor shall I know hereafter what to do
If once my Griefs prove tedious too.
Silent and sad I walk about all day,
As sullen Ghosts stalk speechless by
Where their hid Treasures ly;
Alas, my Treasure's gone, why do I stay?
He was my Friend, the truest Friend on earth;
A strong and mighty Influence joyn'd our Birth.
Nor did we envy the most sounding Name
By Friendship giv'n of old to Fame.
None but his Brethren he, and Sisters knew,
Whom the kind youth preferr'd to Me;
And ev'n in that we did agree,
For much above my self I lov'd them too.
Say, for you saw us, ye immortal Lights,
How oft unweari'd have we spent the Nights?
Till the Ledaan Stars so fam'd for Love,
Wondred at us from above.
We spent them not in toys, in lusts, or wine;
But search of deep Philosophy,
Wit, Eloquence, and Poetry,
'Arts which I lov'd, for they, my Friend, were Thine.
Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say,
Have ye not seen us walking every day?
Was there a Tree about which did not know
The Love betwixt us two?
Henceforth, ye gentle Trees, for ever fade;
Or your sad branches thicker joyn,
And into darksome shades combine,
Dark as the Grave wherein my Friend is laid.
Henceforth no learned Youths beneath you sing,
Till all the tuneful Birds to'your boughs they bring;
No tuneful Birds play with their wonted chear,
And call the learned Youths to hear,
No whistling Winds through the glad branches fly,
But all with sad solemnitie,
Mute as the Grave wherein my Friend does ly.
To him my Muse made haste with every strain Whilst it was new, and warm yet from the Brain. He lov'd my worthless Rhimes, and like a Friend Would find out something to commend. Hence now, my Muse, thou canst not me delight; Be this my latest verse
With which I now adorn his Herse, And this my Grief, without thy help shall write.
Had I a wreath of Bays about my brow,
I should contemn that flourishing honor now,
Condemn it to the Fire, and joy to hear
It rage and crackle there.
Instead of Bays, crown with sad Cypress me;
Cypress which Tombs does beautifie;
Not Phoebus griev'd so much as I
For him, who first was made that mournful Tree.
Large was his Soul; as large a Soul as ere
Submitted to inform a Body here.
High as the Place 'twas shortly'in Heav'n to have,
But low, and humble as his Grave.
So high that all the Virtues there did come
As to their chiefest seat
Conspicuous, and great;
So low that for Me too it made a room.
He scorn'd this busie world below, and all
That we, Mistaken Mortals, Pleasure call;
Was fill'd with inn'ocent Gallantry and Truth,
Triumphant ore the sins of Youth.
He like the Stars, to which he now is gone,
That shine with beams like Flame,
Yet burn not with the same,
Had all the Light of Youth, of the Fire none.
Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught,
As if for him Knowledge had rather sought.
Nor did more Learning ever crowded lie
In such a short Mortalitie.
When ere the skilful Youth discourst or writ,
Still did the Notions throng
About his eloquent Tongue,
Nor could his Ink flow faster then his Wit.
So strong a Wit did Nature to him frame,
As all things but his Judgement overcame;
His Judgement like the heav'nly Moon did show,
Temp'ring that mighty Sea below.
Oh had he liv'd in Learnings World, what bound
Would have been able to controul
His over-powering Soul?
We'have lost in him Arts that not yet are found.
His Mirth was the pure Spirits of various Wit,
Yet never did his God or Friends forget.
And when deep talk and wisdom came in view,
Retir'd and gave to them their due.
For the rich help of Books he always took,
Though his own searching mind before
Was so with Notions written ore
As if wise Nature had made that her Book.
So many Virtues joyn'd in him, as we
Can scarce pick here and there in Historie.
More then old Writers Practice ere could reach,
As much as they could ever teach.
These did Religion, Queen of Virtues sway,
And all their sacred Motions steare,
Just like the First and Highest Sphere Which wheels about, and turns all Heav'n one way.
With as much Zeal, Devotion, Pietie,
He always Liv'd, as other Saints do Dye.
Still with his soul severe account he kept,
Weeping all Debts out ere he slept.
Then down in peace and innocence he lay,
Like the Suns laborious light,
Which still in Water sets at Night,
Unsullied with his Journey of the Day.
Wondrous young Man, why wert thou made so good,
To be snatcht hence ere better understood?
Snatcht before half of thee enough was seen!
Thou Ripe, and yet thy Life but Green!
Nor could thy Friends take their last sad Farewel,
But Danger, and Infectious Death
Malitiously seiz'd on that Breath
Where Life, Spirit, Pleasure always us'd to dwell.
But happy Thou, ta'ne from this frantick age,
Where Ignorance and Hypocrisie does rage!
A fitter time for Heav'n no soul ere chose,
The place now onely free from those.
There 'mong the Blest thou dost for ever shine,
And wheresoere thou casts thy view
Upon that white and radiant crew,
See'st not a Soul cloath'd with more Light then Thine.
And if the glorious Saints cease not to know
Their wretched Friends who fight with Life below;
Thy Flame to Me does still the same abide,
Onely more pure and rarifi'd.
There whilst immortal Hymns thou dost reherse,
Thou dost with holy pity see
Our dull and earthly Poesie,
Where Grief and Mis'ery can be join'd with Verse.
O whom now Pyrrha, art thou kind?
To what heart-ravisht Lover,
Dost thou thy golden locks unbind,
Thy hidden sweets discover,
And with large bounty open set
All the bright stores of thy rich Cabinet?
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