Funerall Elegy Xiii

No, no, he is not dead ; the mouth of fame,
Honor's shrill herald, would preserve his name,
And make it live in spight of death and dust,
Were there no other heaven, no other trust.
He is not dead: the sacred nine deny
The soule that merits fame should ever die:
He lives, and when the latest breath of fame
Shall want her trumpe, to glorify a name,
He shall survive, and these selfe-closed eyes
That now lie slumbering in the dust shall rise,
And, fill'd with endlesse glory, shall enjoy
The perfect vision of eternall joy.

On The Life And Death Of Man

The world's a theatre. The earth, a stage
Placed in the midst: where both prince and page,
Both rich and poor, fool, wise man, base and high,
All act their parts in life's short tragedy.
Our life's a tragedy. Those secret rooms,
Wherein we 'tire us, are our mothers' wombs.
The music ushering in the play is mirth
To see a man-child brought upon the earth.
That fainting gasp of breath which first we vent,
Is a dumb show; presents the argument.
Our new-born cries, that new-born griefs bewray,
Are the sad prologue of the ensuing play.
False hopes, true fears, vain joys, and fierce distracts,
Are like the music that divides the Acts.
Time holds the glass, and when the hour's outrun,
Death strikes the epilogue, and the play is done.

Mors Christi.

And am I here, and my Redeemer gone ?
Can he be dead, and is not my life done ?
Was he tormented in excesse of measure,
And doe I live yet? and yet live in pleasure ?
Alas ! could sinners finde out ne'r a one
More fit than thee for them to spit upon ?
Did thy cheekes entertaine a traytor's lips ?
Was thy deare body scourg'd and tome with whips.
So that the guiltlesse blood came trickling after?
And did thy fainting browes sweat blood and water ?
Wert thou (Lord) hang'd upon the cursed tree ?
O world of griefe ! and was all this for me ?
Burst forth, my teares, into a world of sorrow,
And let my nights of griefe finde ne'r a morrow:
Since thou art dead (Lord) grant thy servant roome
Within his heart to build thy heart a tombe.

Mors Tna.

Can he be faire, that withers at a blast ?
Or he be strong, that ayery breath can cast ?
Can he be wise, that knovves not how to live ?
Or he be rich, that nothing hath to give ?
Can he be young, that's feeble, weake, and wan?
So faire, strong, wise, so rich, so young is man:
So faire is man, that death (a parting blast)
Blasts his faire flow'r, and makes him earth at last
So strong is man, that with a gasping breath
He totters, and bequeathes his strength to death;
So wise is man, that if with death he strive
His wisdome cannot teach him how to live;
So rich is man that (all his debts b'ing paid)
His wealth's the winding-sheet wherein he's laid;
So young is man, that, broke with care and sorrow,
He's old enough to day to dye to-morrow.
Why bragg'st thou then, thou worme of five foot long ;
Th' art neither faire, nor strong, nor wise, nor rich, nor yong.

Gloria Cceli.

When I behold, and well advise upon
The wise man's speech. There's nought beneath the sun
But vanitie, my soule rebels within.
And loathes the dunghill prison she is in:
But when I looke to new Jerusalem,
Wherein 's reserv'd my crowne, my diadem,
O what a heaven of blisse my soule enjoyes,
On sudden wrapt into that heaven of ioyes!
Where (ravisht in the depth of meditation)
She well discernes, with eye of contemplation.
The glory of God in his imperiall seat;
Full strong in might, in majestic compleate.
Where troops of powers, vertues, cherubims,
Angels, archangel, saints and seraphims.
Are chaunting praises to their heavenly King—
Where Hallelujah they for ever sing.

Why Dost Thou Shade Thy Lovely Face?

1 Why dost thou shade thy lovely face? Oh, why
2 Does that eclipsing hand so long deny
3 The sunshine of thy soul-enliv'ning eye?

4 Without that light, what light remains in me?
5 Thou art my life, my way, my light; in thee
6 I live, I move, and by thy beams I see.

7 Thou art mv life; if thou but turn away
8 My life's a thousand deaths: thou art my way;
9 Without thee, Lord, I travel not, but stray.

10 My light thou art; without thy glorious sight
11 Mine eyes are darken'd with perpetual night.
12 My God, thou art my way, my life, my light.

13 Thou art my way; I wander if thou fly:
14 Thou art my light; if hid, how blind am I!
15 Thou art my life; if thou withdraw, I die.

16 Mine eyes are blind and dark, I cannot see;
17 To whom or whither should my darkness flee,
18 But to the light? and who's that light but thee?

19 My path is lost, my wand'ring steps do stray;
20 I cannot safely go, nor safely stay;
21 Whom should I seek but thee, my path, my way?

22 Oh, I am dead: to whom shall I, poor I,
23 Repair? to whom shall my sad ashes fly,
24 But life? and where is life but in thine eye?

25 And yet thou turn'st away thy face, and fly'st me;
26 And yet I sue for grace, and thou deny'st me;
27 Speak, art thou angry, Lord, or only try'st me?

28 Unscreen those heavenly lamps, or tell me why
29 Thou shad'st thy face; perhaps thou think'st no eye
30 Can view those flames, and not drop down and die.

31 If that be all, shine forth, and draw thee nigher;
32 Let me behold and die, for my desire
33 Is ph{oe}nix-like to perish in that fire.

34 Death-conquer'd Laz'rus was redeem'd by thee;
35 If I am dead, Lord, set death's prisoner free;
36 Am I more spent, or stink I worse than he?

37 If my puff'd life be out, give leave to tine
38 My shameless snuff at that bright lamp of thine;
39 Oh, what's thy light the less for lighting mine?

40 If I have lost my path, great Shepherd, say,
41 Shall I still wander in a doubtful way?
42 Lord, shall a lamb of Israel's sheep-fold stray?

43 Thou art the pilgrim's path, the blind man's eye,
44 The dead man's life; on thee my hopes rely;
45 If thou remove, I err, I grope, I die.

46 Disclose thy sunbeams; close thy wings, and stay;
47 See, see how I am blind, and dead, and stray,
48 O thou, that art my light, my life, my way.