  It was a dismal and a fearful night,— Scarce could the Morn drive on th' unwilling light, When sleep, death's image, left my troubled breast, By something liker death possest. My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow, And on my soul hung the dull weight Of some intolerable fate. What bell was that? Ah me! Too much I know! My sweet companion, and my gentle peer, Why hast thou left me thus unkindly here, Thy end for ever, and my life, to moan? O thou hast left me all alone! Thy soul and body, when death's agony Besieged around thy noble heart, Did not with more reluctance part Than I, my dearest friend, do part from thee. Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say, Have ye not seen us walking every day? Was there a tree about which did not know The love betwixt us two? Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade, Or your sad branches thicker join, And into darksome shades combine, Dark as the grave wherein my friend is laid. Large was his soul; as large a soul as e'er Submitted to inform a body here; High as the place 'twas shortly in Heaven to have, But low and humble as his grave; So high that all the virtues there did come As to the chiefest seat Conspicuous, and great; So low that for me too it made a room. Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught, As if for him knowledge had rather sought; Nor did more learning ever crowded lie In such a short mortality. Whene'er the skilful youth discoursed or writ, Still did the notions throng About his eloquent tongue; Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit. His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit, Yet never did his God or friends forget. And when deep talk and wisdom came in view, Retired, and gave to them their due. For the rich help of books he always took, Though his own searching mind before Was so with notions written o'er, As if wise Nature had made that her book. With as much zeal, devotion, piety, He always lived, as other saints do die. Still with his soul severe account he kept, Weeping all debts out ere he slept. Then down in peace and innocence he lay, Like the sun's laborious light, Which still in water sets at night, Unsullied with his journey of the day. A. Cowley |
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