AN ELEGI On the Death of the Most Reverend Father in God, GILBERT Late Arch-Bishop of CANTERBURY Primate, and Metropolitan of all ENGLAND, &c. Who Deceased the 9th. of this Instant November 1677.
OH horrid Death! how didst thou Man invade?
Or how without Creation wast thou made?
Still for thy Crimes we can no Justice get,
But all our Glory in the Grave does set,
Neglected, Worms our pomper'd Bodies tear,
And in soft murmures quarrel for their share:
In silent darkness we are wasted soon,
And Death no better is for what is done.
Prodigious Thief! that cou'd in one sad hour,
Rob Virtues Garland of its choicest Flow'r!
Was there no more to feast thy Tragick eye,
But CANTERBURY through the Shades must flie?
Thy Malice now can injure us no more,
Then Winds do ruin'd Abbeys where they roar.
SHELDON is dead! that fatal whisper sounds
Dreadful to'th Ears, as to the Heart are wounds:
And to the wise more easless Terrour brings,
Then Whales or Comets do to sickly Kings.
Under Great CHARLES he was the Christians hope,
He baffled Sectaries, and still'd the Pope;
Of whose Devotion, far more care has been
Of Temple's Beauty, then of Rites within;
And like a Taper on the Altar, He
Wasted Himself, by letting others see:
So Gallant, Generous, and Noble too;
His Charity did Charity out-do.
He never ask'd the needy Questions o're,
But rather gave'em e're they did Implore.
To Strangers, Kind, Courteous to every Man;
To Noble Friends a faithful Jonathan:
His Kindreds Glory, and his Countre'ys Lig [...]
A Pious Wonder in his Princes sight.
In all his Actions he so Justice priz'd,
He seem'd a Paradice Epitomiz'd;
A sweet Euphrates, still watring all
That we may Virtuous or Religious call.
But now he's vanisht from our dropping eyes.
And left the World to be his Sacrifise:
Yet still his Body does remain below,
Which (as his Soul) did highly merit too
From holy Bodies we receive our good,
But where the Soul lives is not understood.
In Pinks and Roses [...]e rich odours smell
Yet mind not whereabout in them they d [...]
Then to his Grave kind Mourners Homag [...] [...]
Since it incloseth the Caelestial Clay:
Cast down frail Men your pensive eyes, and [...]
The Sacred Relique with your Tears be w [...]
It is more honour to deplore his Fate,
Then to be seated in a Chair of State.
And now pure Saint look from thy glorio
Exhale! the Anxious Mists that in sad [...]
Crown'd with fresh joys of Angels; ta [...]
Fold up thy Arms, and shrink into Jove [...]
In that bright Mansion thou wilt safe ab [...]
There is no Clouds that can thy Glory h [...] [...]
We'l all attend thee when Fames Trump [...]
And Souls do to their scatter'd Bodies go.
FINIS.
LONDON, Printed for John Smith Book-seller in Great Queen-street, 1677. 102.