Epistle LIX. An Elegy on the death of his School-master, Mr. W. H.

Must he dye thus? has an eternal sleep
Seiz'd on each muse, that it can't sing nor weep?
Had he no friends? no merits? or no purse
To purchase mourning? or had he that curse
Which has the scraping worldling still frequented,
To live unlov'd and perish unlamented?

No, none of these; but in this Atlas fall,
Learning for present found its funeral:
Nor was't for want of grief, but scope and vent;
Not sullenness, but deep astonishment;
Small griefs are soon wept out; but great ones come
With bulk, and strike the straight lamenters dumb.

This was the School-master that did derive
From parts and piety's prerogative,
The glory of that good, but painful art;
Who had high learning yet an humble heart.
The Drake of Grammer learning, whose great pain,
Circled that globe, and made that voyage plain.

Time was, when th' artless pdagogue did stand
With his vimineous Scepter in his hand,
Raging like Bajazet o'r the tugging fry;
Who though unhors'd were not of th' infantry;
Applying, like a glister, hic haec hoc,
Till the poor Lad's beat to a whipping-block;
And school'd so long to know a Verb and Nown,
Till each had Propria marius of his own:
As if not fit to learn As in prasenti;
But legally, when they were one and twenty.
Those few that went to th' Univers'ties then,
Went with deliberation, and were men;
Nor were our Academies in those daies
Fill'd with chuck-farthing Batchelors and boyes,
But Scholars with more beard and age went hence,
Then our new Lapwing-Lectures skip from thence.

By his industrious labour, now we see
Boyes coated born to th' University,
Who suck'd in Latine, and did scorn to seek
Their scourge and top in English but in Greek:
Hebrew, the general puzler of old heads,
Which the gray dunce with pricks and comments reads,
And dubs himself a Scholar by it, grew
As natural t' him as if he'd been a Jew.

But above all, he timely did inspire
His Scholars breasts with an aetherial fire:
And sanctify'd their early learning so,
That they in grace, as they in wit did grow:

Yet neither's grace nor learning could defend him
From that mortality that did attend him;
Nor can there now be any difference known,
between his learned bones, and those with none.
For that grand Lev'ler death hurles to one place,
Rich, poor, wise, foolish, noble, and the base.

This only is our comfort and defence,
He was not immaturely ravish'd hence.
But to our benefit, and to his own,
Undying fame and honour, let alone,
Till he had finish'd what he was to do,
Then naturally split himself in two.

And that's one cause he had so few moyst eye,
He made men learned, and that made them ise,
And over-rule their passions, since they see
Tears would but shew their own infirmitie:
And 'tis but loving madness to deplore
The fate of him, that shall be seen no more:
But only I cropt in my tender years,
Without a tongue, or wit, but sighs and tears;
And Yet I come to offer what is mine,
An immolation to his honour'd shrine;
And retribute what he confer'd on me,
Either to's person, or his memory.
Rest pious soul, and let that happy grave
That is intrusted with thy Relicks have
This just inscription, That it holds the dust
Of one that was Wise, Learned, Pious, Just.