Classic Poem

These pure immortall Streames, these holy Streynes,
To flow in which, th' Eternall Wisedome deignes,
Had first their sacred Spring, in Iuda's Plaines.

Borne in the East, their Soule of heavenly Race,
They still preserve a more then Mortall Grace,
Though through the Mortall Pens of Men they passe.

For purest Organs ever were design'd
To this high Worke, the most Etheriall Mind
Was touch't, and did these holy Raptures finde.

You Sir, who all these severall Springs have knowne,
And have so large a Fountaine of your owne;
Seeme Borne and Bred for what you now have done.

Plac'd by just Thoughts, above all worldly Care,
Such as for Heaven it selfe a Roome prepare,
Such as alreadie more then Earthly are.

Next you have known (besides all Arts) their Spring,
The happie East; and from Iudea bring
Part of that Power, with which her Ayres you Sing.

Lastly, what is above all Reach of Praise,
Above Reward, of any fading Bayes,
No Muse like Yours did ever Language raise.

Devotion, Knowledge. Numbers, from your Pen
Mixtly and sweetly flow; whilst listning Men
Suspend their Cares, inamour'd of your Theme.

They calme their Thoughts, and in their Bosoms own
Better Desires, to them perhaps unknowne;
Till by your Musicke to themselves brought Home.

Musicke, (the universall Language) sweyes
In everie Minde; the World this Power obeyes,
And Natures Selfe is charm'd by well-tun'd Layes.

All disproportion'd, harsh, disorder'd Cares,
Vnequall Thoughts, vaine Hopes, and low Despaires,
Fly the soft Breath of these harmonious Ayres.

Here is that Harp, whose Charms uncharm'd the brest
Of troubled Saul, and that unquiet Guest,
With which his Passions travel'd, disposses'd.

Iob, moves Amazement, David moves our Teares;
His Royall Sonne, a sad Apparell weares
Of Language, and perswades to Pious Feares.

The Passions of the First rise great and high,
But Salomon a lesse concerned Eye
Casting on all the world, flowes equally.

Not in that ardent course, as where He woes
The Sacred Spouse, and her chast Love pursues,
With brighter flames, and with a higher Muse.

This Work had beene proportion'd to our Sight,
Had you but knowne with some allay to Write,
And not preserv'd your Authors Strength and Light

But you so crush those Odors, so dispense
Those rich perfumes, you make them too intense
And such (alas) as too much please our Sense.

We fitter are for sorrows, then such Love;
Iosiah falls, and by his fall doth move
Teares from the people, Mourning from above.

Iudah, in her Iosiah's Death, doth dye,
All Springs of griefe are opened to supply
Streames to the torrent of this Elegy.

Others breake forth in everlasting Praise
Having their wish, and wishing they might raise
Some monument of Thanks to after-Dayes.

These are the Pictures, which your happy Art
Gives us, and which so well you doe impart,
As if these passions sprung in your owne Heart.

Others translate, but you the Beames collect
Of your inspired Authors, and reflect
Those heavenly Rai's with new and strong effect.

Yet humane Language only can restore
What humane Language had impair'd before,
And when that once is done, can give no more.

Sir, I forbeare to adde to what is said,
Least to your burnisht Gold I bring my Lead,
And with what is Immortall, mixe the Dead.