The officers for hands, merchants for feet,
By which remote and distant countries meet;
But those fine spirits, which do tune and set
This organ, are those pieces which beget
Wonder and love; and these were she;
Smallness of Being spent, the world must needs decrepit be.
For since death will proceed to triumph still,
He can find nothing, after her, to kill,
Except the world itself, so great as she.
Thus brave and confident may nature be,
Death cannot give her such another blow,
Because she cannot such another show.
But must we say she's dead? may 't not be said,
That as a sunder'd clock is piecemeal laid,
Not to be lost, but by the maker's hand
Repolish'd, without error then to stand,
Or as the Afric Niger stream enwombs
Itself into the earth, and after comes
-Having first made a natural bridge, to pass
For many leagues-far greater than it was,
May 't not be said, that her grave shall restore
Her, greater, purer, firmer than before?
Heaven may say this, and joy in 't, but can we
Who live, and lack her here, this vantage see?
What is 't to us, alas! if there have been
An angel made a throne, or cherubin?
We lose by 't and as agèd men are glad
Being tasteless grown, to joy in joys they had,
1 33. 1625, so great she; 1633, so great was she
So now the sick, starved world must feed upon
This joy, that we had her, who now is gone.
Rejoice then, nature, and this world, that you,
Fearing the last fires hastening to subdue
Your force and vigour, ere it were near gone,
Wisely bestow'd and laid it all on one;
One, whose clear body was so pure and thin,
Because it need disguise no thought within;
'Twas but a through-light scarf her mind to enroll,
Or exhalation breathed out from her soul;
One whom all men, who durst no more, admired;
And whom, whoe'er had worth enough, desired;
As when a temple 's built, saints emulate
To which of them it shall be consecrate.
But as, when heaven looks on us with new eyes,
Those new stars every artist exercise;
What place they should assign to them they
Argue, and agree not, till those stars go out;
So the world studied whose this piece should be,
Till she can be nobody's else, nor she;
But like a lamp of balsamum, desired
Rather to adorn than last, she soon expired.
Clothed in her virgin white integrity
-For marriage, though it doth not stain, doth dye-
To 'scape th' infirmities which wait upon
Woman, she went away before she was one;
And the world's busy noise to overcome,
Took so much death as served for opium;
For though she could not, nor could choose to die, She hath yielded to too long an ecstasy.
He which, not knowing her sad history,
Should come to read the book of destiny,
How fair, and chaste, humble and high she'd been,
Much promised, much perform'd, at not fifteen,
And measuring future things by things before,
Should turn the leaf to read, and read no more,
Would think that either destiny mistook,
Or that some leaves were torn out of the book.
But 'tis not so; fate did but usher her
To years of reason's use, and then infer
Her destiny to herself, which liberty
She took, but for thus much, thus much to die.
Her modesty not suffering her to be
Fellow-commissioner with destiny,
She did no more but die; if after her
Any shall live, which dare true good prefer,
Every such person is her delegate,
To accomplish that which should have been her
They shall make up that book, and shall have thanks
Of fate, and her, for filling up their blanks;
For future virtuous deeds are legacies,
Which from the gift of her example rise;
And 'tis in heaven part of spiritual mirth,
To see how well the good play her, on earth.
Wherein, by occasion of the religious death of Mistress Elizabeth Drury, the incommodities of the soul in this life, and her exaltation in the next, are contemplated.
THE HARBINGER TO THE PROGRESS.
Two souls move here, and mine, a third, must move
Paces of admiration and of love.
Thy soul, dear virgin, whose this tribute is,
Moved from this mortal sphere to lively bliss ;
And yet moves still, and still aspires to see
The world's last day, thy glory's full degree,
Like as those stars which thou o'erlookest far,
Are in their place, and yet still movèd are.
No soul-whiles with the luggage of this clay
It clogged is-can follow thee half-way;
Or see thy flight, which doth our thoughts outgo
So fast, as now the lightning moves but slow.
But now thou art as high in heaven flown
As heavens from us, what soul besides thine own
Can tell thy joys, or say he can relate
Thy glorious journals in that blessed state?
I envy thee, rich soul, I envy thee,
Although I cannot yet thy glory see.
And thou, great spirit, which hers followed hast
So fast, as none can follow thine so fast;
So far, as none can follow thine so far
-And if this flesh did not the passage bar,
Hadst caught her—let me wonder at thy flight,
Which long agone hadst lost the vulgar sight,
And now makest proud the better eyes, that they
Can see thee lessened in thine airy way.
So while thou makest her soul by progress known,
Thou makest a noble progress of thine own,
From this world's carcase having mounted high
To that pure life of immortality;
Since thine aspiring thoughts themselves so raise
That more may not beseem a creature's praise,
Yet still thou vow'st her more, and every year
Makest a new progress, while thou wanderest here,
Still upward mount; and let thy Maker's praise
Honour thy Laura, and adorn thy lays.
And since thy Muse her head in heaven shrouds,
Oh, let her never stoop below the clouds ;
And if those glorious sainted souls may know
Or what we do, or what we sing below,
Those acts, those songs shall still content them best Which praise those awful Powers that make them [JOSEPH HALL]
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