ON THE UNTIMELY AND MUCH LAMENTED DEATH OF Mrs Anne Gray, the Daughter of the Learnedly accomplisht Doctor Nicholas Gray of Tunbridge in Kent, Who dyed of the Small Pox.
AN ELEGIE.
SCarce have I dry'd my Cheeks, but Griefs invite
Again my Eyes to weep, my Hand to write,
Which still return with greater force, being more
In weight and number then they were before.
Mechanick Griefs are eloquent, their sound
Beats through the streets, and in that spacious Round
Salutes each strangers eare: Nor can so high
And wide a Ruine in one Family
Contracted keep; but seeking farther bounds,
Fills every brest with its afflicting sounds.
Youth met with Beauty weeps; then who forbears
To Griefe's Exchequer to bring in his tears?
Het that such tributes doth not now returne,
Knows neither Vertue, nor for whom we mourn,
SHE, whose unequall'd, and whose rich desert
Did take possession in each knowing heart;
Whose life was such, it may be well deny'd,
That she did ever ill, but that she dy'd.
SHE, like another Nature, but whose Name
Gave life to Beauty, and a voyce to Fame;
SHE, whose pure worth was such, whom gone, that even
Heav'n would lament with many a tear, if Heaven
Had not assum'd her, who in all she did,
Both Grace in it and Innocence were hid,
Is hence ascended, while our Griefs infer
Their moyst Complaints, and envy Heav'n, not Her.
Death, who did boast his high Prerogative,
And hourely Conquests over all alive,
Did here begin to startle, and did seeme
To feare her Beauties would now conquer him:
Therefore a danger to prevent so nigh,
Drew forth at once all his Artillery,
And so direct the Battery was laid,
So full the Charge, so fast the Case-shot play'd,
That the poor Body fell upon the place,
A thousand wounds being printed on her face:
Yet spight of Death, and Fate, we must imply,
That she her selfe was well content to dye;
For in this sad and tedious vale of Teares,
Ere she had hardly numbred eighteene yeeres,
She had done all her businesse, and made even
With Earth, and drawn up her accounts for Heaven.
Rich in her Sexes value, good mens praise,
And full of all could be desir'd, but dayes;
Where after her we sigh our soules, the while
She counts our teares, and with a pittying smile
Beholds our following Love; and now no Drums,
Nor voyce of Cannons, nor of Trumpets comes
To vex her quiet eare; nor any noyse
Dares once approach to interrupt her joyes;
But Health and Strength doe court her, and the treasure
Of endlesse light, and unrepented pleasure,
And all the Blessings which faire Peace doth bring
Sent for so oft by my late Lord the King
Her Epitaph.
WOuldst thou know who lies here, under
This cold Marble? read, and wonder:
For body, beauty, feature, sense,
This was the Maid of Excellence,
Whose early Soule soone understood
And practic'd all that men call Good:
And wondring threescore yeares should stay
For what so soone she bore away,
She sudden unto Heaven did fly,
Asham'd of dull Mortality.
SAMUEL HOLLAND.