He did the utmost, bounds of knowledge find;
He found them not fo large as was his mind;
But, like the brave Pellaan youth, did moan
Because that Art had no more worlds than one;
And when he faw that he thro' all had past,
He dy'd, left he should idle grow at last.
ON THE DEATH OF MR. JORDAN,
SECOND MASTER AT WESTMINSTER-SCHOOL.
HENCE! and make room for me, all you who come
Only to read th' epitaph on this tomb.
Here lies the master of my tender years,
The guardian of my parents' hope and fears;
Whofe government ne'er stood me in a tear;
All weeping was referv'd to spend it here.
Come hither all who his rare virtues knew,
And mourn with me; he was your tutor too.
Let's join our fighs, till they fly far, and shew
His native Belgia what he's now to do.
The league of grief bids her with us lament;
By her he was brought forth, and hither fent
In payment of all men we there had loft,
And all the English blood those wars have cost.
Wifely did Nature this learn'd man divide:
His birth was theirs, his death the mournful pride
Of England and t' avoid the envious ftrife
Of other lands, all Europe had his life,
But we in chief; our country foon was grown
A debtor more to him than he to his own.
He pluck'd from youth the follies and the crimes,
And built up men against the future times :
For deeds of age are in their causes then,
And tho' he taught but boys, he made the men.
Hence 'twas a master, in those ancient days,
When men fought knowledge first, and by it praise:
Was a thing full of rev'rence, profit, fame,
Father itself was but a fecond name.
He scorn'd the profit; his instructions all
Were like the fcience, free and liberal.
He deferv'd honours, but defpis'd them, too,
As much as those who have them others do.
He knew not that which compliment they call;
Could flatter none, but himself least of all.
So true, fo faithful, and so just as he,
Was nought on earth but his own memory:
His memory! where all things written were
As fure and fix'd as in Fate's books they are.
Thus he in arts so vast a treasure gain'd,
Whilft ftill the use came in and stock remain'd: 40
And having purchas'd all that man can know,
He labour'd with it to enrich others now:
Did thus a new and harder task sustain,
Like thofe that work in mines for others' gain.
He, tho' more nobly, had much more to do
To fearch the vein, dig, purge, and mint it too:
Volume I.
Tho' my excufe would be, I must confefs,
Much better had his diligence been less.
But if a Mufe hereafter smile on me,
And fay, Be thou a poet; men fhall fee
That none could a more grateful scholar have,
For what I ow'd his life I'll pay his grave.
VANDYCK is dead; but what bold Mufe shall dare
(Tho' poets in that word with painters fhare)
T'exprefs her fadnefs? Poefy muft become
An art, like painting here, an art that's dumb.
Let's all our folemn grief in filence keep,
Like fome fad picture which he made to weep,
Or those who faw 't, for none Iris works could view,
Unmov'd with the fame paffions which he drew.
His pieces fo with their live objects strive,
That both or pictures feem, or both alive.
Nature herfelf, amaz'd, does doubting stand
Which is her own, and which the painter's hand,
And does attempt the like with lefs fuccefs,
When her own work in twins she would exprefs.
His all-refembling pencil did outpafs
The mimic imag'ry of looking-glafs.
Nor was his life less perfect than his art,
Nor was his hand less erring than his heart:
There was no falfe or fading colour there,
The figures sweet and well-proportion'd were.
Moft other men, fet next to him in view,
Appear'd more fhadows than the men he drew.
Thus ftill he liv'd, till Heav'n did for him call,
Where rev'rend Luke falutes him first of all;
Where he beholds new fights, divinely fair,
And could almoft with for his pencil there,
Did he not gladly fee how all things shine,
Wondrously painted in the mind Divine,
Whilft he, for ever ravish'd with the fhow,
Scorns his own art which we admire below.
Only his beauteous lady ftill he loves;
(The love of heav'nly objects heav'n improves)...!
He fees bright angels in pure beams appear,"
And thinks on her he left fo like them here.:
And you, fair Widow! who stay here alive,
Since he fo much rejoices, cease to grieve.
Your joys and griefs were wont the fame to be;
Begin not now, blefs'd Pair! to difagree. de ma
No wonder death mov'd not his gen'rous mind,
You, and a new-born you, he left behind.
Ev'n Fate exprefs'd his love to his dear wife,"
And let him end your picture with his life.
ON THE DEATH OF MR.WILLIAM HARVEY.
Immodicis brevis elt aetas, et rara fenectus.
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 fomething liker death poffefs'd:
My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow,
And on my foul hung the dull weight
Of fome intolerable fate.
What bell was that? Ah me! too much I know.
My fweet Companion! and my gentle Peer!
Why haft thou left me thus unkindly here,
Thy end for ever, and my life, to moan ?
O thou haft left me all alone!
Thy foul and body, when death's agony
Befieg'd around thy noble heart,
Did not with more reluctance part
Than I, my dearest Friend! do part from thee.
My dearest Friend! would I had dy'd for thee!
Life and this world, henceforth, will tedious be;
Nor fhall I know hereafter what to do,
If once my griefs prove tedious too.
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