AN ELEGY, On the Death of the Reverend, Learned. and Pious William Bell, D.D. Vicar of S. Sepulchres; who Died July the 19th, 1683.
WHAT
Bell is that? I fear it will be Se'd,
England's no
Ringing Island, Bell is Dead.
Grave Oxford's
Fell, and
Lincoln's
Mighty T—
Chester, and
Brave Ely, and
Sarum;
Are somewhat out of
Tune (I fear) to see
Bell cast anew, to
take his full
Degree.
Sorrow each
Breast, Silence each
Tongue hath ceas'd,
Since the
Bell Told, that, Doctor
Bell's Deceas'd.
In
Silence Grieve, since
Silent now he is,
Who when he
Spake, all
Silent would be. 'Tis
A
Tacite mournful Text, the
Winding Sheet,
Makes
Poets Sigh; Verses give up your
Feet,
"
Who ever Sob'd in Numbers? Can a Groan
"
Be Quaver'd out by soft Division?
If then our
Loss be rightly understood,
No
News, our
Land should Weep into a
Flood:
Yet
Bords your
Aid; for here's a
Choice Theam,
Your
Wits can never Jump to the
Extream:
But in
Defect; no Praise is
Excessive,
On
Excellencies most
Superlative,
Reader, I Pray, let not your
Virgin Faith,
Scorn to
Submit, to what your
Poet Saith;
Without
Hyperbole; who knew him,
Kens
He was a
Pattern of all
Excellence,
So Excellent, that even to Express,
His Excellencies seems to make them less.
A Mighty
Loyalist, and
Truths Defendant,
Of Papists and Sectaries, a sweet
Opponent:
Panduct of all Knowledg; for no
Prelate
More
Learn'd, or more
Profound, or any
Legate,
Or any
Pope, Jesuit, Cardinal:
In Fine, more Learn'd, more Critical than all.
"
Knowledg and Zeal in him so Sweetly-met,
"
His Pulpit seem'd a Second Oliver.
"
Where from his Lips he would deliver Things,
"
As though some Seraphims had clasp'd his Wings.
"
His painful Sermons were so neatly dress'd,
"
As if an Anthem were in Prose express'd.
His Words were
Pat &
Smooth, & yielding much
Of
Nectar and
Ambrosia, they were such
As would allure
Angels, at any Rate,
To be his Auditors (if possible) Fate,
Made him a
Tenant of a longer Date,
Than those ill
Husbands
[...] so
Live, (we see,)
As to neglect to
Die, and
Die to be.
Unfit to
Live again; he
Liv'd to
Die,
And
Di'd to
Live unto
Eternity.
Whose Conscience, both to God and Man,
Was equal
inoffensive, and the
Span
Of whose
unspotted Life deserves to Be
Preserv'd in Mind by his
Posterity,
Bless'd Soul departed, if to any one
O' th'
Saints above to Thee I'd
Pray alone.
And in my
Kalendar I'd place thy
Fall
And make thy
Dying-day Canonical.
"
Thy Ghost inspires our Muse, what Spirit Ran
"
In Thee before, Lives now in every Man.
Yet can no Muse express how
thou art
Blest
With Saints above.
Let Angels speak the Rest.
The EPITAPH.
The Vicar of S. Sepulchres
Lyeth
Within this Sepulcher;
who Craveth
His Name,
the Bells
will that declare,
To tell his Worth,
who able are,
But He himself?
Yet all can tell,
The Doctor
liv'd (and dy'd) so well.
London, Printed by T. Moore, & J. Ashburne, for Joseph Roberts, at the Bible in Fleet-Lane, 1683.