Classic Poem

Upon Samuel Ward, D.D.

THE LADY MARGARET'S PROFESSOR IN CAMBRIDGE .

Were 't not peculiar to weep for thee,
The world might put on mourning, and yet be
Below just grief: Stupendous man! who told
By vast endowments that she grew not old.
But thine own hands have rais'd a monument
Far greater than thyself, which shall be spent
When error conquers truth, and time shall be
No more, but swallow'd by eternity;
But when shall sullen darkness fly away,
And thine own ectype, Brownrigg, give it day!
Or when shall ravish'd Europe understand,
How much she lost by thee, and by it gain'd!
How well thou guardest truth! How swift to close
With whatsoever champion durst oppose!
Bear witness, Dort, when error could produce
The strength of reason and Arminius,
How did he loose their knots, how break their snares,
How meet their minings, how pluck up their tares!
How did his calmer voice speak thunder! How
His soft affections holy fury grow!
That had but hell and tyrants any room,
There wanted nothing of a martyrdom.
But Providence said no, and did consent
That oil of time should not be spilt, but spent;
Nay, as the greatest flame doth ever fly
From failing lamps, should'st in most glory die;
And as the phaenix when she doth prepare
To be her own both murderer and heir,
Makes richest spice her tomb and cradle be,
To quit and reassume mortality,
Even so thou (Seraph!) spent thy minutes all,
In preparation for thy funeral,
And rais'd so great a pile, death could aspire
No greater honour than to put to fire;
That thus the flame might lend us light below,
But the sweet breathing smoke still upward go.English