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AN ELEGY On the Much Lamented DEATH of DR. SANDERSON, Late Lord BISHOP of Lincolne, Who Deceased the latter end of January, 1662.
BRing hither Sacrifice, and Feral Yue,
The sacred pavement with deaths Frondage strew.
The Malign Cypresse, and sad Myrtle Bough
That wreath the mighty Libitina's Brow
Sprinkle with pious Tears, the Dew of Love;
With suppliant sighs, her slanting Garland move.
In soft procession let us obvious meet
The insulting Foe, and gently her intreat;
The insulated tribe advance before,
And with propitiating words adore,
〈1 line〉〈1 line〉
And for the Altars do thy self Devote.
When will the unhallow'd doom of death surceas
When will the Prelates Fatall Bill decrease?
Far more contagious then that pest'lent Heat
Of zeal, which but their Honours did unseat.
Their precious lives did propagate the Creed,
Instaur'd the Church by living Martyrs seed;
But this Barbarian rage the Flamins Kills,
And robs the Church with complicated Ills;
The Church int's infancy, not yet matur'd,
Beyond the sense of what it had indur'd.
For scarce the common woe was over blown,
When the sad Church distinctly weeps her own,
If the pale Horse drive on this furious rate,
Time will o're taken be and faulter Fate;
Nor will succrescent strength so fast succeed;
As soon will pillars rise from bending reed.
What heavy ta••k then hath this muse to mourn,
In this most useful blessed Bishops Urn?
This Age's unable, or unfit to grieve,
Knows not where to begin or where to leave;
Horrour becomes the times that passed are,
Treasures of grief relieve not present care;
And who so bold to undertake the Debt,
That to th' account of future time is set?
And will run up to such a vast arrear,
That Pearls w'ont pay if grief could crust a Tear.
As Moses, who the Wildred Jewes did guide,
On Nebo mount in sight of Canaan dy'd,
And was enterd wher's grave could not be found
That murmurers might not Idolize the Ground;
So Heaven resumes this our great Leader hence,
And leaves the late gain-sayers in suspence;
Fain would they Honour Goodness they confess
But 〈…〉〈…〉 sacred Order 〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉
Whose Institution being next divine,
Leavs the ungrate, lost in a fond designe.
But who thy Title to thy worth oppose,
Do the whole Orders brighter Fame disclose.