The Holy Longing, Elegy 1 – Elegy 4
AN ELEGY Upon the much lamented death of his dear Friend Mr. Stock.
MUſes avaunt, I need you not t' inſpire
My duller veins with your Poetick fire.
Such an occaſion as a doleful Urn,
Cannot but make even Parrots Poets turn;
And dumb-born children ſpeak like Cro…ſus ſon,
To ſee their Parents ſtruck at▪ every ſtone
Can then turn Vocal Mourner, ſuch an Herſe▪
Will make Tully himſelf to poure forth Verſe.
Oh happy they who knew thee not, if there
Be any ſuch within our Hemiſpheare!
'T was bleſſed ignorance thee not to know,
That kept them from the knowledg of their wo;
From direful fears, from griefs ſoul-piercing dart,
From reſtleſſe palpitations of the heart.
Methinks I dare not repreſent thy worth,
(How vaſt it was) nor ſet thy praiſes forth.
Friends, tell not Cambridge that her crown is gone,
Nor London what great cauſe ſhe hath to mourn.
Wake not that Lion, grief; and give no vent
To thoſe fierce ſtreams of raging diſcontent:
Leſt Jordan like, they quickly overflow
Their banks, and drown us in this common wo.
His parts ſo high, that if death had not ſhown
Thy mortal ſtate; I had not fear'd to own
Thee for ſome nobler creature; and his fire
Of zeal was ſuch as glows in that beſt Quire
Of Seraphims; there was both light and heat,
And all that here below is wondred at:
Was Plato's doctrine true, this was the man,
The Idea of a ſolid Chriſtian?
When all the earth turn'd round, and wheel'd about,
Reeling now here, now there, ever in doubt,
Drunk with opinions, he ſtill like the Sun,
Stood firme and fixed in his ſtation.
His knowledge deep and large, yet never made
Him dare the Preathers Office to invade.
He never lik'd to go beyond his reach,
Willing he was to learn, though apt to teach.
I'le adde no more, for if I ſhould diſplay
His matchleſſe treaſures, I ſhould fright away
Belief, and make doubtful poſterity
Conclude, I did not write an Hiſtory
Of what thou waſt; (for who'l believe one ſpan
Could graſp of worth ſo vaſt an Ocean?)
But feign a perſon in whoſe name to ſhew
What men ſhould be, not what in thee was true.
Mat. Pool.
Ʋpon the much to be lamented death of that hopeful Gentleman, Mr. JACOB STOCK, who died in the flower of his age, &c.
THus deaths devouring Sythe ſtayes not for time,
But cuts our choiceſt Flowers down in their prime:
With too much ſpeed ſhe antidates the day,
And croppeth off our July flowers in May;
Yea, with an avaritious hand to mock
Our future hopes, ſhe robs us of our STOCK;
Not mov'd with ſweetneſſe, piety or parts,
With deareſt friends, with wives ſad eyes and hearts;
As if the plants of ſuch rare uſe and ſhow,
Might not in a Terreſtial Garden grow;
I'th' higheſt Paradiſe ſhe hath him ſet,
Where the ſelecteſt Nurſeries of the earth are met.
Where like tranſplanted ſtemmes, he now redoubles
His breadth and ſweetneſſe, being grown rich by troubles.
So we our loſſes ſhall complain no more;
We've loſt our STOCK, but he increaſt the ſtore.
And to that glorious place ſuch beauty brings,
As decks * the Garland of the King of Kings.
By a friend.
The Muſes Threnody, and Faiths Epinichion; Or a funeral Elogy upon the worthy of all memory, Mr. JACOB STOCK.
FA.
—What! nought but weep, ſad Muſe? Up, dry thine eyes,
Hang head no more, ſee how he winged flies
Among the Cherubs; once I ſaw him dwell
Within the Microcoſme of a ſhell:
Now perch't in heaven; Come, let's up and look him,
A feaver hatch't him, then the Angels took him.
Mu.
—Ah! I'me undone,
He was my Benjamin, my only ſon,
Idolatry I would not recontrive,
Or elſe I'de call him Moſes Redivive
For skill in Egypts Arts; Methinks I ſee
Their Hieroglicks in Logometrie.
Great Livye in ſmall skins, or Philadelph
The old worlds wonder pi'ld up in a ſhelf.
All Euclids lines concentred in a point,
And Ptol'mys broken Sphears right ſet in joynt.
Fa.
—Peace babling Muſe, doſt thou think ſuch man
Can graſped be within thy narrow ſpan,
Or fully meaſur'd with thy Pigmies feet,
'Bout whom the wideſt Orbs could never meet?
His ſoul's a pledge in Goſhen, ſpare your grones,
Joſeph will ſhortly ſend for Jacobs bones.
C. C.
Upon the death of my Worthy Friend Mr. JACOB STOCK.
HE only knows, who knows how thou didſt live,
How much for loſs of thee 'tis fit to grieve;
And yet our tears would fail us if we were
To every vertue bound to pay a tear;
For all thoſe vertues which diſperſed ſhine
In ſeveral lives, unite their beams in thine;
Thou waſt not only kind or liberal,
Modeſt or juſt, or temperate, but all;
And among all Religion did ſway,
As the firſt ſphear turns all the orbs one way.
Ah! why ſo ſoon ſnatch't hence! 'tis true by noon
Thy early vertue all its work had done;
But yet thou ſhould'ſt have liv'd more leiſurely,
That we might have obſerv'd and follow'd thee;
Not pent thy life up in ſo narrow ſpace,
Where whil'ſt each vertue ſtriving for a place,
Crowds to get in before it be too late,
Thou liv'ſt too faſt for us to imitate.
Since then much of thy life is loſt, wee'l try
Some nobler thing, to live as thou didſt dye.
I. T.
FINIS.
End of the text · Thomas Watson, The Holy Longing (1659)