Funeral Elegy 2. On my dear Sister Mrs. Isabella Cokaine, who who died at Ashbourne about the 18th yeer of her Age, and lyes there buried

It is an irreligious pride to turne
Away our eyes, and not to see thine Urne.
For sure that body whose blest soul doth keep
A Jubile in heaven, (while here asleep
It lies in holy earth) is every day
Bless'd by good Angels, that do pass that way:
And therefore we with reverence should eye
The Sepulchres where Saints entomb'd do lye:
And every time that we do go or come
Nigh where thine Ashes lye, behold thy Tombe
But when we see it, should we weep our eyes
Dry of their tears, and then conclude in cries?
It is impossible that our complaints
Should make a Diapason to the Saints.
an Hallelujahs song above agree
With tears on earth? Tis an Antipathie
But 'tis unnatural we should be glad,
And 'tis Impiety we should be sad:
We must not grieve therefore, nor yet rejoyce;
But fix us in the mean, and shew us wise.
Be glad, that we believe her soul is crown'd
With endless Glory in Heavens ample Round:
Onely lament that we have lost our guide,
And (wanting her) are apt to wander wide
We need not bid thee sleep secure, that know
That God himself rock'd thee asleep below.
Sweet Sainted Maid, thou meritest the Pen
Of Cherubims to shew thee unto men:
And dost deserve a bench of Poets grave
To study, and to write thine Epitaph,
Which in Mosaick work with diamonds bright
Should be drawn out, and read by it's own light
A Titian, or a Bonarota should
Cast thee a Statue of pure Ophir Gold:
Had'st thou thy due, the eager earth would sure
Anatomize one India for Ore
And precious stones, a Pyramid to reare,
Lasting and great as the Egyptian were,
To thy eternal memorie; and from
Th e eastern-lands bring all the plenteous sum
Of spices and perfumes, and on the height
Of that rich monument burn them day and night
But 'tis a thing impossibly too hard
For men on earth to give thee thy reward:
Thy God, whose power and love is infinite,
Thee hath, and doth, and ever will requite
Among the Chorus of Heavens Virgins pure,
To sing Divinest Anthems evermore.
The homely verses I have writ, she oft
Hath smil'd upon, approv'd them smooth and soft:
And if my pen hath power to give a fame,
Dear Isabella, here shall live thy Name.
Had I the deathless Homer's brain, and could
Sing lofty numbers like to Maro Old;
A wit to match Sulmonean Ovid, I
Had writ a Poem, not an Elegie.
Tis known, and I confess this is beneath
Her Life, and her expressions at her death:
Her resurrection plain will shew how well
She led her life, and bad the World Farewel.