ON Mr. ABRAHAM COWLEY His Death, and Burial amongst the Ancient Poets.  By the Honourable Sir john Denham. 
OLd Chaucer, like the morning Star,  
To us discovers day from far,  
His light those Mists and Clouds dissolved,  
Which our dark Nation long involved;  
But he descending to the shades,  
Darkness again the Age invades.  
Next (like Aurora) Spencer rose,  
Whose purple blush the day foreshews;  
The other three, with his own fires,  
Phoebus, the Poet's God, inspires;  
By Fletcher's lines,  
Our Stages lustre Rome's outshines:  
These Poets near our Prince's sleep,  
And in one Grave their Mansion keep;  
They lived to see so many days,  
Till time had blasted all their Bays:  
But cursed be the fatal hour  
That plucked the fairest, sweetest flower  
That in the Muse's Garden grew,  
And amongst withered Laurels threw.  
Time, which made them their Fame outlive,  
To Cowley scarce did ripeness give.  
Old Mother Wit, and Nature gave  
Shakespeare and Fletcher all they have;  
In Spencer, and in johnson, Art,  
Of slower Nature got the start;  
But both in him so equal are,  
None knows which bears the happi'st share;  
To him no Author was unknown,  
Yet what he wrote was all his own;  
He melted not the ancient Gold,  
Nor with Ben johnson did make bold  
To plunder all the Roman stores  
Of Poets, and of Orators:  
Horace his wit, and Virgil's state,  
He did not steal, but emulate,  
And when he would like them appear,  
Their Garb, but not their clothes, did wear:  
He not from Rome alone, but Greece,  
Like jason brought the Golden Fleece,  
To him that Language (though to none  
Of th' others) as his own was known.  
On a stiff gale (as Flaccus sings) 
His Pindaricks.   
The Theban Swan extends his wings,  
When through the aetherial Clouds he flies,  
To the same pitch our Swan doth rise;  
Old Pindar's flights by him are reached,  
When on that gale his wings are stretched;  
His fancy and his judgement such,  
Each in the other seemed too much,  
His severe judgement (giving Law)  
His modest fancy kept in awe:  
As rigid Husbands jealous are,  
When they believe their Wives too fair,  
His English stream so pure did flow,  
As all that saw, and tasted, know.  
But for his Latin vein, so clear,  
Strong, full, and high it doth appear, 
His last work.   
That were immortal Virgil here,  
Him, for his judge, he would not fear;  
Of that great Portraiture, so true  
A Copy Pencil never drew.  
My Muse her Song had ended here,  
But both their Genii straight appear,  
Joy and amazement her did strike,  
Two Twins she never saw so like;  
Such a resemblance of all parts,  
Life, Death, Age, Fortune, Nature, Arts,  
Then lights her Torch at theirs, to tell,  
And show the world this Parallel,  
Fixed and contemplative their looks,  
Still turning over Nature's Books:  
Their works chaste, moral, and divine,  
Where profit and delight combine;  
They guilding dirt, in noble verse  
Rustic Philosophy rehearse;  
Nor did their actions fall behind  
Their words, but with like candour shined,  
Both by two generous Princes loved.  
Who knew, and judged what they approved  
Yet having each the same desire,  
Both from the busy throng retire;  
Their Bodies to their Minds resigned,  
Cared not to propagate their Kind:  
Yet though both fell before their hour,  
Time on their offspring hath no power,  
Nor fire, nor fate their Bays shall blast,  
Nor Death's dark vail their day overcast.  
FINIS.   

〈◊〉 August 1●. 1667. Roger L'Estrange.  
London, Printed for H. Herringman, at the Blue Anchor in the Lower walk of the New Exchange. 1667.