To the Memory of Edmund Waller Esq

Though ne'r so base, or never so sublime,
All human things must be the spoil of time;
Poet and Hero with the rest must go,
Their Fame may higher mount, their dust must ly as low:
Thus mighty Waller is, at last, expir'd,
With Cowley from a vitious Age retir'd,
As much lamented and as much admir'd!
Long we enjoy'd him: on his tuneful tongue,
All Ears and Hearts with the same rapture hung,
As if Heav'n had indited, and an Angel sung.
Here the two bold, contending Fleets are found,
The mighty Rivals of the wat'ry round;
In Smoak and Flame involv'd, they cou'd not fight
With so much force and fire as he does write!
Here Galatea mourns; in such sad strains
Poor Philomel her wretched Fate complains:
Here Fletcher and Immortal Iohnson shine,
Deathless, preserv'd in his Immortal Line:
But where, O mighty Bard! where is that he,
Surviving now, to do the same for Thee?
At such a Theme my conscious Muse withdraws,
Too weak to plead in such a weighty cause.
Whether for Peaceful Charles, or Warlike Iames,
His Lyre was strung; the Muse's dearest Themes!
Whether of Love's success, when in the Eyes
Of the kind Nymph the kindling glances rise,
When, blushing, she breaths short, and with constraint denies;
Whether he paint the Lover's restless care,
Or Sacharissa the disdainful Fair;
(Relentless Sacharissa, deaf to Love,
The only she his Verse cou'd never move;
But sure she stopt her Ears and shut her Eyes,
He cou'd not else have miss'd the Heav'nly Prize)
All this is done with so much grace and care,
Hear it but once, and you'd for ever hear!
His Labours thus peculiar Glory claim,
As writ with something more than mortal flame:
Wit, Judgment, Fancy, and a heat divine
Throughout each part, throughout the whole does shine,
The expression clear, the thought sublime and high;
No flutt'ring, but with even wing he glides along the Sky.
Some we may see, who in their Youth have writ
Good sense, at fifty take their leave of wit,
Chimaera's and Incongruous Fables feign,
Tedious, Insipid, Impudent and Vain,
The Hinds and Panthers of a Crazy Brain:
But he, when he through eighty years had past,
Felt no decay, the same from first to last,
Death only cou'd his vig'rous Flame o'ercast.
Such was the Man whose loss we now deplore,
Such was the Man, but we shou'd call him more:
Immortal in himself, we need not strive
To keep his sacred Memory alive:
Just, Loyal, Brave, Obliging, Gen'rous, Kind;
The English Tongue he to the height refin'd, his Legacy,
And the best Standard of it leaves behind.