AN ELEGY On the DEATH of Sir JOSEPH SHELDON, LATE Lord Mayor of LONDON.
SPight of the most Capricious Critticks Rage,
Spight of my Self, my Follies, or my Age;
Though young in Years, yet by his Bounty blest,
For my Eternal Quiet and my Rest,
I must unload the Burthen from my Breast:
This mighty Gratitude that shakes my Soul,
And must be thus express'd, though ne'r so dull:
For Oh! who can such matchless Goodness see,
Snatch'd from us by an early Destiny!
Was't not enough, O Heaven! Grave Sheldon fell!
Must our Grief be without a parallel!
Must that whole Race be snatched from the Earth!
And make of Goodness such a Cruel Dearth?
As with young Infants, we observe, 'tis still
That others in their early Wit excell;
Mark'd with that Heavenly Sign we know must fall,
And still expect th' Unwelcome Funeral;
Until at last, pliant to Fate, it bends,
And ripe for Joys Unspeakable ascends.
So He who most in Goodness did excell,
Like to ripe Fruit, too good to last, He fell:
Sure we could ne'r have bourn His Uncles Fall,
Had not He then surviv'd his Funeral:
As when the Universal Phoenix Dyes,
A young One still does from the Ashes rise:
So the Twelve Patriarchs, when Jacob Dy'd,
Alone on Joseph all their Hopes rely'd:
'Tis he, and only he, must raise their Name,
And snatch from time their almost sinking Fame;
'Tis he must mollifie th' Aegyptians Pride,
That they may safely in that Court abide:
'Tis he must save them by his powerful Word
From the sharp Famine, or the sharper Sword:
That they did hope; All that our Joseph did,
But now from ours, he grows the City's Head:
But now behold him, see his chearful Eye
Not Clouded with a surley Gravity,
But with Majestick Modesty and Grace,
Promising mighty Goodness in his Face.
But if such Beauty outwardly we find,
Who can describe the Beauty of his Mind?
That innate Vertue which none e're could Paint,
Which made him even upon Earth a Saint.
No Wonder London, once so famous grown,
Daily decreases from its tost Renown,
And to its former Chaos does sink down.
Did not one mighty Prop uphold its State,
We soon alas! should see it bend to fate:
And when the Pillar of a Stately Frame
Falls, though 'tis Registred i'th Book of Fame,
The mighty Edifice must surely fall,
And Universal Ruine drown'd it all;
But still the Fame survives, and so will His,
His Deeds have Built a Monument of Praise.
O to behold such Clusters at his Gate
Of poor weak Souls, that did his Bounty wait,
And ne'r in vain; for each had sure his share
Both of his Charity, his Love and Care:
Nor did he proudly his large Gifts bestow,
But with Humility and Distance too.
In's Countries good his time he did employ,
How to preserve the Good, or Bad destroy.
His Noble Justice equal Ballance gave,
Nor could the proud Mans Cause out-way his slave:
Not large in promises, as most are now,
Nor saying ought but what he meant to do.
In Feast or Pomps, Noble, and yet not proud,
With a great, not a groveling, mind endow'd,
To his Equals free, to his Inferiors good.
A Father to the Orphan, to the Wife
If rob'd of her lov'd Husband, a Relief,
A Noble Pattern of a Christians Life.
But hold Melpomeny, and cease to praise,
Least thou turn'st Pagan and an Idol raise.
But Oh! forgive me now, if I have been
By my Compassion sooth'd into a Sin.
And now to Summon all to the Great End,
He was a Faithful Subject, Faithful Friend.
An EPITAPH.
REader look down and Weep to see
Death Triumphing in Victory:
Whose Greedy Maw has here Devour'd
That which Alive we all Ador'd.
Not all our Wishes, all our Praise
Cou'd add One Minute to his Days.
Then since His Loss so much We Moan,
Let Us but think the Case our own:
Follow His Steps, and we shall see
Our Sheldon Crown'd with Immortality.
FINIS.
London, Printed for T. Haly, in the Year, 1681.