A FVNERALL ELEGIE VPON THE MVCH LAMENTED DEATH OF THAT MOST REVEREND, PIOUS, AND JUDICIOVS DIVINE JOHN POLYANDER OF KERCKHOVEN, DOCTOR AND CHEIFE PROFESSOR OF DIVNITIE IN THE FAMOUS VNIVERSITIE OF LEYDEN, And there the 8th time MAGNIFICUS RECTOR.
WHat's seldome seene makes wonder: Then admir'd
His
life must bee, whose
Lease so late expir'd.
But Death is Common. True; yet soe to die
Or live, transcends the common destinie
Of mortalls: None so free from blame or sin,
That most admire hee'd not immortall beene.
And so hee is; while neuer-dyinge Fame
Fat he winde, or wing, or trumpe to sound his name.
But (since wee finde a change in things belowe
Which some call Death, and fewe desire to knowe,
When two deare consorts part, and must remove
Though closely knit in euer constant love)
Tell mee Great soule, what made
[...] quit the seat
Of thy soe long abode? Did burning heat
Consume it? No. Wa'st
cold? That drives all in,
Andwilt thou out? woulde it had warmer been!
The pillars firme, the Fabrick stood upright,
Noe prop supportinge it; the windowes light,
Noe senseles sense: Those
organs all in tune,
And thou theyr
Harmonye, but breathles, soone
That musick stopt expires, confused noise
Succeeds, and mixt with greif's lamenting voice,
Sighs, sobs & cries, fret the tormented aire
Chok't with complaints of sadnesse and despaire;
While freinds bewaile a freinde whome none did spite
But that unletterd foul-mouth'd Carmelite.
Children a tender Father, and a wife
Her selfe in him that was her soule and life:
His flock a watchfull Pastor, wandring youth
A certaine guide; and thou nere-conquerd
Truthe
A valiant Champion to defend thy right
'Ganist hell-scortcht Atheists which would dimme the light
Of that
God-Sonne of Heauen. Schollers greive
His death by whome theyr priviledge did live:
And nowe theyr sun's Eclip'st. Flie chearfull light,
Or wrapt in clouds of an infernall night
Hang all the world in black! Some wanton eye
Might Else perhaps theyr nakednesse espie.
Thus all lament, but
Hee triumphant sings
Sweet Hallelujahs to the King of Kings.
Much haue wee lost, but hee much more hathe won,
Wee sawe the candle, hee beholds the Sun.
Hee's glad, wee sad; and'tis a common crosse,
That none doe gaine but by anothers losse.
SAMUEL BRUNSELL.