AN ELOGY UPON THE Much lamented Death of Mr Luke Fawne, junior, who dyed the sixth of January, 1650. being Ten Years, six Moneths, and four days old.
I'M big with Grief, That I can onely vent
My Passion in a sad Astonishment:
My Sorrows are turn'd rude, and do dispence
A Fury greater, then thy Innocence.
Could there be so great Guilt on such young Years,
That justly could deserve these pious Tears?
Did the too partial Heavens but lend Thy Sight,
Thus to engage us in Eternal Night?
Did they Thy Life on us at first bestow,
Onely to make thee but a Ten Years Show?
But I have done; Thou wert too good to be
Continued in a Land of Miserie.
We grieve Our Loss, not Thine; for we're left here
To the sad Comfort of a sadder Tear.
See how each Forehead's furrow'd to a Frown,
And every Eye its willing Tears drops down;
Mourning Thy Loss, as if the World and all
Its Creatures suffer'd in Thy untimely Fall.
Thy Loss is fatal to the World; in Thee
Nature has lost her highest braverie.
Thy Parts in so young Years did strongly prove
Thou wert her onely Darling, and her Love.
How did Thy Sweetness extasie our Sense
Into a wonder of Thy Excellence!
Thy Vertues were too great for to have grown
In any clay besides what was Thine own.
Thou wert the purest Dust, that e're was made
T'enclose so bright a Soul within a Shade.
—But Oh! it's gone
T' its last and greatest Dissolution.
And our full Tears, at best, will prove to be
But faint Drops of a Pious Extasie.
Look back to th' Spring, and if you e're have seen
Ʋntimely winds blast Trees scarce fully green,
Know that our Loss is such, since He hath shown,
E're a ripe Spring, such blossoms of his own.
Fate sure past o're his years, and view'd his parts
Arraign'd to th' Bar, not for his age, but arts.
Whoever saw a loaded ear of Corn
Not Earth-wards tend? the empty upwards born:
E're life they dye; e're death thou life didst scorn.
Piaetatis Ergò, sic cecinit,
Robertus Tutchein.