A p[i]ndarique elegie upon the death of the R.R. Father in God Jeremy, late Lord Bishop of Doune, Connor, and Dromore by Le. Mathews ...

A p[i]ndarique elegie upon the death of the R.R. Father in God Jeremy, late Lord Bishop of Doune, Connor, and Dromore by Le. Mathews ...

Table of contents

Title page

TO THE MEMORY Of the most Venerable Doctor JEREMY TAYLOR, Lord Bishop of DOWNE; &c.

TO THE MEMORY Of the most Venerable Doctor JEREMY TAYLOR, Lord Bishop of DOWNE; &c.

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Stanza. I.

HAppy the man! whom fate permits to stay

In the abodes of old eternity;

Careless what 'tis to live, and what to dye,

Or whats a doing in mortality;

Well satisfi'd only to be,

To dwell in an immortal ray,

Hid in the light of that long lasting day.

[Page]But happier he! if'tis his doom

From Natures silent tyring room,

To enter on our busie Stage, the world;

Who not by fortune hither hurl'd.

An empty place to fill,

Or to make up the Cities bill,

Or stand a mute, or gaze amongst the crowd,

And do ingloricus things and vile,

And idly laugh and prate a while,

Till out of breath wrapt in a common shroud,

I [...] laid with unknown bones, and has no fame allow'd;

But he who bravely speaks and bravely does,

And throughout all the various Scenes

Worthy and fit himself demeans;

Whether his part the Prince or Peasant shows,

For that the Drammatist and not he chose:

He does deserve th' applause of all,

Thrice happy him! may the spectators call,

When th' worlds almighty Poet bids the curtain fall.

II.

Such was the man whom all admir'd,

Whom [...]ame, and Heaven's sweet breath inspir'd,

Whose funeral voice made others live,

And Immortality did often give;

And yet though such he were;

Though thus the mighty man has done

The mighty man (alas!) is gone:

He, he is gone and left us here

[Page]To doubt if heaven can such another send,

Or what for us it does intend,

For all our joyes and hopes are frighted flown

Ere since the whole Church heard by a catholick groan

The Doctors gone.

III.

Open great volumn of Fame, open wide,

Written fair and full on every side;

To all the world his story show,

Though all the learned world already know

But Fame, be elegant like him;

Be quaint, be copious, and not obscure;

And Book unsullied be and trim;

Have a large character; but specially be sure without, within

No blot, no stain be seen,

For this to latest ages must endure.

IV.

He was the man, so pure, so innocent,

So careless of forbidden fruit,

Richly supply'd with Natures own recruit;

So masculine his soul, and so content

To be but man; so little bent

To vice, that you might call

Him one not bruis'd by Adams fall.

Iv'e never but with admiration seen

[Page]His generous looks, his glorious meen,

They made me think of heaven, and of the Saints above.

So Angels live, and smile, and love;

And one might guess as soon, that they

Had ancient scores to pay,

And smelt our Grandsires mouldy clay.

V.

So vast his knowledge, he

Had tasted oft of each allowed tree,

On all their sweets had daily fed

The Bird of Paradise, he kindly bred

A gaulless Dove within the Serpents head:

The Cherubs bow'd, and sheath'd their swords;

For's tongue had all the charms of words,

All that language and wit affords,

And new and fitter names did wear;

And's lucky pen (as if a pencil 'twere)

Made gold, by guilding it, more golden to appear.

Ye, wisdoms Sons with him there's lost

A Vatican of learned things, which cost

A Treasury of precious time; but grieve ye most

For undiscover'd Arts and Sciences,

And what is excellent in those or these;

What never was, what never shall be found,

With him lye buried under ground.

VI.

Had he been where the Lycaonian throng

Thought those two Prelats Gods in humane shape;

[Page]He scarcely could escape

Their worship, and a canonizing Song;

Iove for his presence, Mercury for his tongue.

Had he been thine, fond Rome, th' hadst gloried more

In him then all thy wondrous Saints before;

His birth had famous been and great,

His life a golden legend should repeat;

The Hero dead had sainted bin; and soon

His Reliques miracles must have done,

Whilst his the Rubrick names did far out-shine;

Yet though thy native, he had not been thine;

Strong prejudice his free-born soul

Custom and interest were never able to controule:

Could my weak voice make Fames trump louder sound,

I'de speak thy praise the Universe around;

Great Saint! thy humblest votary;

A thousand hymns I would bestow,

Alas! ten thousand would not do:

Too big the subject, and too strait the Poetry,

For all that can be bravely said is due to thee.

VII.

Oft have I thought, and still admir'd,

Religion's Sons in blacks [...]tti [...]d

Black, natures mou [...]ning vaile; a hew

More d [...]smal far than cypress or the yew!

Black! that checks the [...]oying beams of light:

Black! the mantle of forsaken night:

Canonick habit of a Tragedy!

Misfortunes dress! Deaths livery!

There was of yore (and, yet there scarce could be)

[Page]Religion's darling, an illustrious he,

bright Saint, like thee;

Whose face did shine

When thou didst preach God's Law, like thine,

Who lighted the bewildred host

With a dark Lanthorn, a cloud and flaming post,

Till in Mount Neboes vale their guide and light they lost;

For some such loss as theirs or ours, I guess

The mystick train of men profess

An art of death, and ghostly things do talk,

And ever since in mourning gravely walk.

VIII.

Such was the mitred man

Our great Diocesan,

Whose Crosier aw'd our murmuring land,

As he those tribes with a miraculous Wand;

Whose eye not dim, but natures heat intire;

The sacrifice on th' altar did expire:

His sacred feaver, his ardent love

Heav'd him to Heaven, and to those flames above;

Iehovah suck't, and kiss'd his soul away,

As Rabbins of Israels Prophet say:

Or as the Tishbite in his fiery coach

Rode up toth' Gate, and Heavens bright palace did approach:

Strange was his death, and strange his grave!

And our great Prophet too ascended so;

O had he left his mantle here below!

A harder thing then Shaphats Son we crave,

A double portion of thy spirit may thy Successors have.

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IX.

How poor, how short a thing is all

The time which here we living call!

Scarce, is our race begun,

Ere half our race is run;

The noble prize how very few have won?

With Tim's quick wings to death we fly

As swiftly as the hours; and you and I,

Reader and all must dye.

Stay serious thought, prethee stay;

See how apt 'tis to flee away!

When th' undiscerned hand does snatch us hence,

For what goood deed expect we recompence?

When we are tumbled into dust,

What can Fame say, if it be true and just?

We must like common people die,

Nothing but vulgar in our Elegie;

There's nothing of our own

To be by future ages known;

Our memories 'mongst undistinguisht beasts are thrown.

X.

Thy fate, blest soul, cannot be such,

Whom none could prize, whom none could praise too much:

My Beads Ile bid before thy venerable shrine,

Who like the Stars, to which th' art gone, didst shine:

I fear my rhimes, my love

So ill exprest, may libels prove;

[Page]For what is set too high, no man can reach,

But in thy stile, none ought of thee to preach;

To read the Text again is the best gloss;

Thy glorious Works can praise thee most; thy name

Shall be preserv'd by th' spicy breath of Fame!

Support and ornament oth' Christian Cross!

The Churches Doctor! the Catholick loss!

XI.

But though the Doctors dead,

Though from the Fane the Oracle is fled,

The Temple still is hallowed;

His sacred ashes still are there;

Ile humbly pay a figh, a tear:

Rest holy clay,

Slumber till the judgement day;

Devout cinders! contrite dust!

Mild heart! free from cank'ring rust!

Learned brain! eloquent tongue!

Charmes of the attentive throng!

Bright cheerful looks! which ne're

Envie or grief, anger or fear,

Though they have try'd a thousand times and mo [...]e,

Could make you pale before!

Pious breaths! you'l sigh no more, but sleep:

Rest closed eyes! no more you'l weep:

Rest facred clay,

Slumber till the judgment day!

[Page]Thus I said, and as I said,

The awfull Relick made me bow my head,

What was in life so great, is something great when dead.

XII.

His soul from golden Fetters free,

Rapt to its own dear liberty,

To highest Heaven knew all the wayes,

For there't had been ten thousand times in pray'r and praise,

Wrapt in a commendatory prayer,

A mouthful of artic late Air,

—Air rarifyed with hearty zeal

was its first vehicle;

A nimble Cherub quickly flyes

From the best wardrope in the skies;

For soon the news had fill'd th [...]se starry rooms,

The Prelat comes;

The welcom guest is quickly cloath'd upon

With A bes of pure etherial lawne;

Subtile as Angels joy, and fine

As is the breath divine:

Clad in that Robe of white,

Of soft and never with'ring light,

He gently passes through

A long admiring row

Of sainted Ghosts to martyr Charle's wa [...]n

Come, Tayler, come;

Here's Hammond, there is Sanderson:

The lesser Angels all make room,

[Page]And they embrace—ill natured men! in vain

Ye kept these three from the entreating Soveraign:

Enter bright Soul this general Convention,

This Quire of Priests; hither's thy translation,

Bishop Elect! there shortly will be given

To thee a Diocess in the large Hierarchy of Heaven.

FINIS,

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§

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A P [...]NDARIQUE ELEGIE Upon the death of the R. R. Father in God JEREMY, Late Lord Bishop of Doune, Connor, and Dromore.

By Le. Mathews A. M. à sacr. domest.

Dublin, Printed by Iohn Crook, Printer to the Kings most Excellent Majesty, and are to be sold by Samuel Dancer, Bookseller in Castlestreet, 1667.

Information about this book

Title statement

A p[i]ndarique elegie upon the death of the R.R. Father in God Jeremy, late Lord Bishop of Doune, Connor, and Dromore by Le. Mathews ...

Mathews, Lemuel, fl. 1661-1705.

Edition statement

1667

Publication

Publisher

Text Creation Partnership,

Place of publication

Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) :

Date

2003-01 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1).

ID [DLPS]

A50273

ID [STC]

Wing M1289

ID [STC]

ESTC R32058

ID [EEBO-CITATION]

12308557

ID [OCLC]

ocm 12308557

ID [VID]

59320

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(EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A50273)

Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 59320)

Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 1015:15)

Source

— A p[i]ndarique elegie upon the death of the R.R. Father in God Jeremy, late Lord Bishop of Doune, Connor, and Dromore by Le. Mathews ..., Mathews, Lemuel, fl. 1661-1705..

Extent

[2], 5-14 p.

Printed by John Crook ... and are to be sold by Samuel Dancer ...,. Dublin :: 1667.. (In verse.) (Indistinct letter in second word of title.) (Reproduction of original in the Cambridge University Library.)

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