An Elegie on Dr. Donne: By Sir Lucius Carie

Poets attend, the Elegie I singBoth of a doubly-named Priest, and King:In stead of Coates, and Pennons, bring your Verse,For you must bee chiefe mourners at his Hearse,A Tombe your Muse must to his Fame supply,No other Monuments can never die;And as he was a two-fold Priest; in youth,Apollo's; afterwards, the voice of Truth,Gods Conduit-pipe for grace, who chose him forHis extraordinary Embassador,So let his Liegiers with the Poets joyne,Both having shares, both must in griefe combine:Whil'st Johnson forceth with his ElegieTeares from a griefe-unknowing Scythians eye,(Like Moses at whose stroke the waters gushtFrom forth the Rock, and like a Torrent rusht.)Let Lawd his funerall Sermon preach, and shewThose vertues, dull eyes were not apt to know,Nor leave that Piercing Theme, till it appearesTo be goodfriday, by the Churches Teares;Yet make not griefe too long oppresse our Powers,Least that his funerall Sermon should prove ours.Nor yet forget that heavenly Eloquence,With which he did the bread of life dispense,Preacher and Orator discharg'd both partsWith pleasure for our sense, health for our hearts,And the first such (Though a long studied ArtTell us our soule is all in every part,)None was so marble, but whil'st him he heares,His Soule so long dwelt only in his eares.And from thence (with the fiercenesse of a floodBearing downe vice) victual'd with that blest foodTheir hearts; His seed in none could faile to grow,Fertile he found them all, or made them so:No Druggist of the Soule bestow'd on allSo Catholiquely a curing Cordiall.Nor only in the Pulpit dwelt his store,His words work'd much, but his example more,That preach't on worky dayes, His PoetrieIt selfe was oftentimes divinity,Those Anthemes (almost second Psalmes) he writTo make us know the Crosse, and value it,(Although we owe that reverence to that nameWee should not need warmth from an under flame.)Creates a fire in us, so neare extremeThat we would die, for, and upon this theme.Next, his so pious Litany, which none canBut count Divine, except a Puritan,And that but for the name, nor this, nor thoseWant any thing of Sermons, but the prose.Experience makes us see, that many a oneOwes to his Countrey his Religion;And in another, would as strongly grow,Had but his Nurse and Mother taught him so,Not hee the ballast on his Judgement hung;Nor did his preconceit doe either wrong;He labour'd to exclude what ever sinneBy time or carelessenesse had entred in;Winnow'd the chaffe from wheat, but yet was loathA too hot zeale should force him, burne them both;Nor would allow of that so ignorant gall,Which to save blotting often would blot all;Nor did those barbarous opinions owne,To thinke the Organs sinne, and faction, none;Nor was there expectation to gaine graceFrom forth his Sermons only, but his face;So Primitive a looke, such gravitieWith humblenesse, and both with Pietie;So milde was Moses countenance, when he prai'dFor them whose Satanisme his power gainsaid;And such his gravitie, when all Gods bandReceiv'd his word (through him) at second hand,Which joyn'd, did flames of more devotion moveThen ever Argive Hellens could of love.Now to conclude, I must my reason bring,Wherefore I call'd him in his title King,That Kingdome the Philosophers beleev'dTo excell Alexanders, nor were griev'dBy feare of losse (that being such a PreyNo stronger then ones selfe can force away)The Kingdome of ones selfe, this he enjoy'd,And his authoritie so well employ'd,That never any could before becomeSo Great a Monarch, in so small a roome;He conquer'd rebell passions, rul'd them so,As under-spheares by the first Mover goe,Banish't so farre their working, that we canBut know he had some, for we knew him man.Then let his last excuse his first extremes,His age saw visions, though his youth dream'd dreams.