Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
Abraham Cowley. 16181667352. On the Death of Mr. William Hervey
IT was a dismal and a fearful night: | |
Scarce could the Morn drive on th’ unwilling Light, | |
When Sleep, Death’s image, left my troubled breast | |
By something liker Death possest. | |
My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow, | 5 |
And on my soul hung the dull weight | |
Of some intolerable fate. | |
What bell was that? Ah me! too much I know! | |
My sweet companion and my gentle peer, | |
Why hast thou left me thus unkindly here, | 10 |
Thy end for ever and my life to moan? | |
O, thou hast left me all alone! | |
Thy soul and body, when death’s agony | |
Besieged around thy noble heart, | |
Did not with more reluctance part | 15 |
Than I, my dearest Friend, do part from thee. | |
My dearest Friend, would I had died for thee! | |
Life and this world henceforth will tedious be: | |
Nor shall I know hereafter what to do | |
If once my griefs prove tedious too. | 20 |
Silent and sad I walk about all day, | |
As sullen ghosts stalk speechless by | |
Where their hid treasures lie; | |
Alas! my treasure ‘s gone; why do I stay? | |
Say, for you saw us, ye immortal lights, | 25 |
How oft unwearied have we spent the nights, | |
Till the Ledæan stars, so famed for love, | |
Wonder’d at us from above! | |
We spent them not in toys, in lusts, or wine; | |
But search of deep Philosophy, | 30 |
Wit, Eloquence, and Poetry— | |
Arts which I loved, for they, my Friend, were thine. | |
Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say | |
Have ye not seen us walking every day? | |
Was there a tree about which did not know | 35 |
The love betwixt us two? | |
Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade; | |
Or your sad branches thicker join | |
And into darksome shades combine, | |
Dark as the grave wherein my Friend is laid! | 40 |
Large was his soul: as large a soul as e’er | |
Submitted to inform a body here; | |
High as the place ’twas shortly in Heaven to have, | |
But low and humble as his grave. | |
So high that all the virtues there did come, | 45 |
As to their chiefest seat | |
Conspicuous and great; | |
So low, that for me too it made a room. | |
Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught | |
As if for him Knowledge had rather sought; | 50 |
Nor did more learning ever crowded lie | |
In such a short mortality. | |
Whene’er the skilful youth discoursed or writ, | |
Still did the notions throng | |
About his eloquent tongue; | 55 |
Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit. | |
His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit, | |
Yet never did his God or friends forget; | |
And when deep talk and wisdom came in view, | |
Retired, and gave to them their due. | 60 |
For the rich help of books he always took, | |
Though his own searching mind before | |
Was so with notions written o’er, | |
As if wise Nature had made that her book. | |
With as much zeal, devotion, piety, | 65 |
He always lived, as other saints do die. | |
Still with his soul severe account he kept, | |
Weeping all debts out ere he slept. | |
Then down in peace and innocence he lay, | |
Like the Sun’s laborious light, | 70 |
Which still in water sets at night, | |
Unsullied with his journey of the day. | |
But happy Thou, ta’en from this frantic age, | |
Where ignorance and hypocrisy does rage! | |
A fitter time for Heaven no soul e’er chose— | 75 |
The place now only free from those. | |
There ‘mong the blest thou dost for ever shine; | |
And wheresoe’er thou casts thy view | |
Upon that white and radiant crew, | |
See’st not a soul clothed with more light than thine. | 80 |