On the Death of Mr. William Hervey

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Immodicis brevis est ætas, & rara Senectus. Martial

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,
          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,
Thy end for ever, and my life, to moan?
          O, thou hast left me all alone!
Thy soul and body when death's agony
          Besieg'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 shall I know hereafter what to do
          If once my griefs prove tedious too.
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?

He was my friend, the truest friend on earth;
A strong and mighty influence join'd our birth;
Nor did we envy the most sounding name
          By friendship giv'n of old to fame.
None but his brethren he and sisters knew,
          Whom the kind youth preferr'd to me;
          And ev'n in that we did agree,
For much above my self I lov'd them too.

Say, for you saw us, ye immortal lights,
How oft unweari'd have we spent the nights,
Till the Ledoean stars so fam'd for love,
          Wondred at us from above!
We spent them not in toys, in lusts, or wine;
          But search of deep philosophy,
          Wit, Eloquence, and Poetry,
Arts which I lov'd, 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
          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!

Henceforth no learned Youths beneath you sing,
Till all the tuneful birds to'your boughs they bring;
No tuneful birds play with their wonted chear,
          And call the learned youths to hear,
No whistling winds through the glad branches fly,
          But all with sad solemnity,
          Mute and unmoved be,
Mute as the grave wherein my friend does lie.

To him my Muse made haste with every strain
Whilst it was new and warm yet from the brain:
He lov'd my worthless rhymes and, like, a friend,
          Would find out something to commend.
Hence now, my Muse! thou canst not me delight;
          Be this my latest verse,
          With which I now adorn his hearse,
And this my grief, without thy help, shall write.

Had I a wreath of bays about my brow,
I should contemn that flourishing honor now:
Condemn it to the Fire, and joy to hear
          It rage and crackle there.
Instead of bbays, crown with sad cypress me;
          Cypress which tombs does beautify:
          Not Phoebus griev'd so much as I
For him, who first was made that mournful tree.

Large was his soul; as large a soul as ere
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
          As to their chiefest seat
          Conspicuous, and great;
So low, that for me too it made a room.

He scorn'd this busy world below, and all
That we, mistaken mortals, pleasure call;
Was fill'd with inn'ocent gallantry and truth,
          Triumphant ore the sins of youth.
He like the Stars, to which he now is gone,
          That shine with beams like flame,
          Yet burn not with the same,
Had all the light of youth, of the fire none.

Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught,
As if for him Knowledge had rather sought.
Nor did more Learning ever crowded lie
          In such a short mortality.
When ere the skilful youth discours'd or writ,
          Still did the notions throng
          About his eloquent tongue,
Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit.

So strong a wit did Nature to him frame,
As all things but his judgement overcame;
His judgement like the heav'nly moon did show,
          Temp'ring that mighty sea below.
Oh had he liv'd in Learning's world, what bound
          Would have been able to control
          His over-powering soul?
We'ave lost in him arts that not yet are found.

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,
          Retir'd, and gave to them their due:
For the rich help of books he always took,
          Though his own searching mind before
          Was so with notions written ore
As if wise Nature had made that her book.

So many Virtues join'd in him, as we
Can scarce pick here and there in History.
More then old writer's practice ere could reach,
          As much as they could ever teach.
These did Religion, Queen of Virtues' sway,
          And all their sacred motions steer,
          Just like the first and highest sphere
Which wheels about, and turns all Heaven one way.

With as much zeal, devotion, piety,
He always liv'd, 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,
          Which still in water sets at night,
Unsullied with his journey of the day.

Wondrous young man! why wert thou made so good,
To be snatch'd hence ere better understood?
Snatch'd before half of thee enough was seen!
          Thou ripe, and yet thy life but green!
Nor could thy friends take their last sad farewell,
          But danger and infectious death
          Malitiously seiz'd on that breath
Where life, spirit, pleasure always us'd to dwell.

But happy thou, ta'ne from this frantick age,
Where igno'rance and hypocrisy does rage!
A fitter time for heaven no soul ere chose,
          The place now only free from those.
There 'mong the blest thou dost for ever shine,
          And wheresoe're thou casts thy view
          Upon that white and radiant crew,
See'st not a soul cloath'd with more light than thine.

And if the glorious saints cease not to know
Their wretched friends who fight with life below;
Thy flame to me does still the same abide,
          Only more pure and rarifi'd.
There whilst immortal hymns thou dost reherse,
          Thou dost with holy pity see
          Our dull and earthly Poesy,
Where grief and misery can be join'd with verse.