Poems written by A. Cowley.

On the Death of Sir Anthony Vandike, The famous Painter.

VAndike is Dead; but what Bold Muse shall dare (Though Poets in that word with Painters share) T'express her sadness? Po'esie must become An Art, like Painting here, an Art that's Dumbe. Let's all our solemn grief in silence keep, Like some sad Picture which he made to weep, Or those who saw't, for none his works could view Unmov'ed with the same Passions which he drew. His pieces so with their live objects strive, That both or Pictures seem, or both Alive. Nature herself amaz'ed, does doubting stand, Which is her own, and which the Painters Hand. And does attempt the like with less success When her own work in Twins she would express. His All-resembling Pencil did out-pass The mimick Imag'ry of Looking-glass. Nor was his Life less perfect then his Art, Nor was his Hand less erring then his Heart. There was no false, or fading Colour there, The Figures sweet and well proportion'd were. Most other men, set next to him in view, Appear'd more shadows then the men he drew. Thus still he liv'ed till heav'en did for him call, Where reverent Luke salutes him first of all. Where he beholds new sights, divinely faire; And could almost wish for his Pencil there; Did he not gladly see how all things shine, Wondrously painted in the Mind Divine, Whilst he for ever ravisht with the show Scorns his own Art which we admire below. Onely his beauteous Lady still he loves; (The love of heav'enly Objects Heav'en improves) He sees bright Angels in pure beams appear, And thinks on her he left so like them here. And you, fair Widow, who stay here alive, Since he so much rejoyces, cease to grieve. Your joys and griefs were wont the same to be; Begin not now, blest Pair, to Disagree. No wonder Death mov'ed not his gen'erous mind. You, and a new-born You, he left behind. Even Fate exprest his love to his dear Wife, And let him end your Picture with his Life.