Prototypes, Poem
Banburies Funerall teares powred forth upon the Death of her late pious and painefull Paſtour Mr. William Whately deciphered in this Sympathizing Elogy.
I am that Orbin which of late did ſhine
An heav'n enlightned ſtarre with raies divine,
Which did ariſe within mee and diſpence
Light, life, heate, Heav'n-infuſing influence,
And went before me, ſteering right mine Eye
VntoUnto the very place where CHRIST did lye.
He was a Cynoſura in my motion
To Heaven's bright haven on this worlds vaſt Ocean;
Or as the Aegyptian Pharos to deſcrie
The rockes of ſinne and errour to mine Eye.
Hee was my Glorie, Beautie, Conſolation,
My very ſoule, I but the Corporation.
I would goe on with bleedings to recite,
His and mine owne ſad fall, but I can't write,
Throbs ſhake mine hand, and griefe my ſight deſtroyes,
And when I ſpeake, ah! teares doe drowne my voice:
Yet will I ſigh, and give my ſorrowes pent
Within my breast, by mournefull breathings vent.
Come then ſpeake ſighs, write teares, and ſadly ſtorie,
The dark Ecclipſe that hath befell my glorie.
My Starre is falne, and Heavens did ſo diſpoſe,
That there he fell, where he at firſt aroſe:
The Starres above us thus their races runne
Returning thither whence they firſt begunne.
But did I ſay hee's fallen? Stay me there,
He is tranſlated to an higher ſpheare,
Where (though to th' world he is obſcur'd) he may
Shine forth unvailed in a purer ray,
Fixt to an endleſſe reſt in heavens bright throne,
Above all starry Constellation.
But ah, alas Death hath diſpoſ'd it ſo
That his riſe prooves my fall, his weale my woe:
His weale my woe? ſtrange! what a change is this?
My welfare was but now in wrapt in his:
But thus Death innovates; and did he not
Tell me that he Commiſsion hath got,
And warrant for his fact from heavens great King
I would have brought him into queſtioning;
Ah death what hast thou done? Doſt thou not care
To make a breach which ages can't repaire?
So rare a Frame in peeces for to take
VVhichWhich Heav'n and nature did combine to make
A Maſter-peece? For who did ere behold
So ſound a ſpirit in ſo ſtrong a mold?
Heaven's treaſure which within his breaſt abode
VVas by his liberall tongue diſperſt abroad.
All Graces gave a meeting in him, even,
To make his breaſt a little map of Heav'n.
His lips diſtilled Manna; and he ſtood
Not ſo for Church-goods as the Churches good.
His voice it was a trump, whoſe ſound was made
VVith breath divine which it from Heaven had.
His life a dayly Sermon, which alas,
Methinkes was meaſur'd by too ſhort a glaſſe.
Ah Death though Painters give thee holes for eyes
Yet thou canſt ſee to take the richeſt prize,
To hit the fairest mark; yet I ſuſpect
It was my ſinne which did thine hand direct:
My light had I improov'd it well for gaine
VVould have remaind, els lights ſha'nt burn in vain.
Yet ſure he is not dead, for why? I find
Him ſtill ſurviving, in my breaſt enſhrin'd;
And who can ſay that he's of life bereaven
That lives in's works, inpious hearts in Heaven?
He's but a ſleepe, by death undreſt, not dead,
Or hath but changd his dreſse; for he in stead
Of theſe ſin-ſtaind ragges of mortality
VVeares a pure robe whoſe length's eternity.
M. B.