AN ELEGIACAL POEM, Humbly suffered to the memory of the most Reverend Father in God, GILBERT, Late Archbishop of CANTERBURY, Primate of all England, and Metropolitan, one of his Majesty's Most Honourable Privy-Council, etc. Who died the 9th of this instant November 1677.  
NOw that the Court with spreading Triumphs swells,  
And the Town echoes with rejoicing Bells;  
Whilst Princely Nuptials, and a Prince's Birth  
Fills dullest souls with Ecstasies of Mirth,  
And active Love makes London rival Rome,  
To mint fair Conqueror's for the Age to come:  
Lest surfeiting Delights should us destroy,  
Kind Fate thinks fit to cast in an Alloy,  
Grave Sheldon's Death: Sheldon! in whom the Great  
Was twisted with the Good, as Light and Heat.  
The dolesome news our gayest Joys o'er powers,  
Like April Sunshine dashed with sudden showers.  
Ah wretched state of sublunary things!  
Which flutter thus with Party coloured wings.  
Yet let's not mourn— He the good fight had fought,  
And, like a trusty Pilot, safely brought  
The Church o'er Billows of divided Rage,  
And Hurricanes o'th' last tempestuous Age;  
In which he stood, Religious Rock, not mixed  
With the Time's Torrent, but still bravely fixed  
On humble Basis of true Piety,  
And what that did inspire, strict Loyalty.  
As gentle Oil upon the streams doth glide,  
Not mingling with it, though it smooths the tide.  
Now having settled her in happy Calm,  
And healed her wounds with Moderations Balm,  
His work, finished, as the descending Sun,  
Withdraws his Lustre when his Race is run,  
And sets more radiant than he first begun.  
Death, to complete his never-dying story,  
Translates His Grace unto a state of Glory:  
Yet he that thinks him dead, most grossly errs;  
Can Virtue die? No, but as brightest Stars  
Seem not to shine when near the Sun, he thus  
Is not extinct, only lies hid to us.  
And now my straggling Verse would fain prepare  
To imp her duller wings with Fire and Air,  
Impregnated with strange Magnetic force,  
To follow him in his Seraphic Course;  
But must forbear that Theme, denied to men  
Of Common Souls, or a Lay groveling Pen.  
It is enough, if our unhallowed Lays  
May coast along the Ocean of His Praise.  
A Prelate, such as stemmed the Heathen Flood,  
And watered first the Gospel with their Blood,  
ere haughty Rome or pert Geneva tried  
The Churches seamless Garment to divide,  
And make Truth how to th'interests of a Side.  
Learned, devout, discreet, every way fit  
To feed the Flock, and also govern it.  
With judgement he the awful Crosier swayed;  
Mildly he Ruled, and Christianly Obeyed:  
An humble gracious Grandeur, and as free  
From Beckets Pride, as Bonner's Cruelty;  
Still laboured to exclude whatever sin  
By Time or Carelessness had entered in;  
Winnowed the Chaff from Wheat, but yet was loath  
A purblind Zeal should come and burn them both;  
And thought their Charity or Sense but small,  
Who to save often Blotting, would Blot All;  
And to that riddling squeamishness are grown,  
As to think Organs sin, but Faction none.  
One Maxim all his Politics enrouls,  
To serve his God, his Prince, and People's Souls.  
So mild was Moses Countenance when he prayed  
For those whose Satanism his Power gainsaid;  
And such his Gravity, when all God's Band  
Received his Word (through him) at second-hand.  
But we disturb his modest dust—  
He now on Angel's wings salutes the seats  
Of Glory, where he still (methinks) entreats  
God to vouchsafe as much Light as is fit  
Unto his Flock, and grant Content with it:  
To give such Teachers as love not to vent  
Their private Fancies, but maintain Consent  
Of hearts, if not of tongues; and melt away,  
By powerful fire, Adulterate Alloy  
Of mixed Dissensions: that Christ's Spouse may be  
Linked and united in sweet Harmony,  
Breathe all alike, and being free from strife,  
To Heaven make good their Faith, to Earth their Life.  
FINIS.   

London: Printed for D. M. 1677.  
With Allowance.  
Ro. L'Estrange.