MEMENTO MORI
AN ELEGY Upon the DEATH of the Reverend, Pious and Learned Dr. SANDCROFT, Late Ld. Arch-Bishop of Canterbury, And Metropolitan of all ENGLAND.
HERE Reverend Sandcroft's sleeping Reliques lye,
Of that Great Man, All he had left to Die!
Alas, the Prelate long, long Dead before;
The Metropolitan was seen no more.
In Dust the Crosier, and the Mitre, lay;
An Autumn Blast had swept those Leaves away,
And only the poor Naked Trunk left stand
For the keen Winter's last Destroying Hand.
Death took him in a Melancholy Hour;
Oh Zeal, how unaccountable's thy Pow'r!
What tho', when James our Judah's Scepter bore,
'Twas all a Moses Snaky Rod before;
He saw it, in the Gracious William's Hand,
Converted to an Aaron's Blooming Wand:
Yet with a Truth too firm, though ill deserv'd,
Too faithfully the unkind Master serv'd;
Too fast to his last broken Fortunes hung;
Still the Kiss'd Scorpion he his Darling sung.
What, though retir'd from Lambeth's Princely Tow'rs!
An humble Cell held his Recluser Hours:
Though of the Pageantry of Pomp bereft,
He had still those fair unravish'd Glories left:
His sweet Contentment was it self alone
A Coronet, and Solituae a Throne.
Mount then, Blest Saint, to thy Immortal Seat;
And claim thy fairer Starry Coronet:
For if Humility, so highly priz'd,
Neglected Worlds, and Popular State Despis'd;
If Patience, and a Soul above the Loss
Of the Stript Plumes of Fortune's shining Dross,
Are Scaling Steps to the Eternal Throne,
The Jacob's Ladder, sure, was all thy own.
The EPITAPH.
Retir'd, from Powers unweildy Toil,
Beneath this Alabaster Pile,
This Pile of Alablaster; nay,
Beneath this homely Turf, thou'lt say,
Lyes Mighty Sandcroft's humble Clay.
Here th' Abdicating Prelate Sleeps,
And his small Six-foot Court he keeps.
But, wondring Reader, would'st thou know,
How that great Head should lie so Low:
Instead of Stately Marble Chests,
In this Course Vulgar Vault it rests:
He saw Great William's Rising Morn,
And all the Beams his Brows Adorn:
And gazing at the Imperial Pride,
His too weak Opticks, narrow ty'd,
Made him the Dazling Glory shun;
And to this poor, poor Covert run,
Not Eagle-Ey'd enough to face so Bright a Sun.
London, Printed by William Downing: And Licensed according to Order.