On the Death of Mrs. Elizabeth Filmer. An Elegiacall Epitaph

You that shall live awhile, beforeOld time tyrs, and is no more:When that this ambitious stoneStoopes low as what it tramples on:Know that in that age, when sinneGave the world law, and governd Queene,A virgin liv'd, that still put onWhite thoughts, though out of fashion:That trac't the stars, 'spite of report,And durst be good, though chidden for't:Of such a soule that infant Heav'nRepented what it thus had giv'n:For finding equall happy man,Th' impatient pow'rs snatch it agen.Thus, chaste as th' ayre whither shee's fled,She, making her celestiall bedIn her warme alablaster, layAs cold is in this house of clay:Nor were the rooms unfit to feastOr circumscribe this angel-guest;The radiant gemme was brightly setIn as divine a carkanet;Of which the clearer was not knowne,Her minde or her complexion.Such an everlasting grace,Such a beatifick face,Incloysters here this narrow floore,That possest all hearts before.

Blest and bewayl'd in death and birth!The smiles and teares of heav'n and earth!Virgins at each step are afeard,Filmer is shot by which they steer'd,Their star extinct, their beauty dead,That the yong world to honour led;But see! the rapid spheres stand still,And tune themselves unto her will.

Thus, although this marble must,As all things, crumble into dust,And though you finde this faire-built tombeAshes, as what lyes in its wombe:Yet her saint-like name shall shineA living glory to this shrine,And her eternall fame be read,When all but VERY VERTUE'S DEAD.

Headley (SELECT BEAUTIES, ed. 1810, ii. p. 42) has remarkedthe similarity between these lines and some in Collins'

"Belov'd till life can charm no more;And MOURN'D TILL PITY'S SELF BE DEAD."

See! what a clouded majesty, and eyesWhose glory through their mist doth brighter rise!See! what an humble bravery doth shine,And griefe triumphant breaking through each line,How it commands the face! so sweet a scorneNever did HAPPY MISERY adorne!So sacred a contempt, that others showTo this, (oth' height of all the wheele) below,That mightiest monarchs by this shaded bookeMay coppy out their proudest, richest looke.

Whilst the true eaglet this quick luster spies,And by his SUN'S enlightens his owne eyes;He cures his cares, his burthen feeles, then streightJoyes that so lightly he can beare such weight;Whilst either eithers passion doth borrow,And both doe grieve the same victorious sorrow.

These, my best LILLY, with so bold a spiritAnd soft a grace, as if thou didst inheritFor that time all their greatnesse, and didst drawWith those brave eyes your royal sitters saw.

Not as of old, when a rough hand did speakeA strong aspect, and a faire face, a weake;When only a black beard cried villaine, andBy hieroglyphicks we could understand;When chrystall typified in a white spot,And the bright ruby was but one red blot;Thou dost the things Orientally the sameNot only paintst its colour, but its flame:Thou sorrow canst designe without a teare,And with the man his very hope or feare;So that th' amazed world shall henceforth findeNone but my LILLY ever drew a MINDE.