A PINDARIC ELEGY Upon the death of the R. R. Father in God JEREMY, Late Lord Bishop of Down, Connor, and Dromore.  
By Le. Mathews A. M. à sacr. domest.  
Dublin, Printed by john Crook, Printer to the Kings most Excellent Majesty, and are to be sold by Samuel Dancer, Bookseller in Castlestreet, 1667.   

TO THE MEMORY Of the most Venerable Doctor JEREMY TAYLOR, Lord Bishop of DOWN; etc.  

Stanza. I.  
HAppy the man! whom fate permits to stay  
In the abodes of old eternity;  
Careless what 'tis to live, and what to die,  
Or what's a doing in mortality;  
Well satisfied only to be,  
To dwell in an immortal ray,  
Hid in the light of that long lasting day.  
But happier he! if'tis his doom  
From Nature's silent tiring room,  
To enter on our busy Stage, the world;  
Who not by fortune hither hurled.  
An empty place to fill,  
Or to make up the City's bill,  
Or stand a mute, or gaze amongst the crowd,  
And do ingloricus things and vile,  
And idly laugh and prate a while,  
Till out of breath wrapped in a common shroud,  
I● laid with unknown bones, and has no fame allowed;  
But he who bravely speaks and bravely does,  
And throughout all the various Scenes  
Worthy and fit himself demeans;  
Whether his part the Prince or Peasant shows,  
For that the Drammatist and not he chose:  
He does deserve th' applause of all,  
Thrice happy him! may the spectators call,  
When th' world's almighty Poet bids the curtain fall.   

II.  
Such was the man whom all admired,  
Whom ●ame, and Heaven's sweet breath inspired,  
Whose funeral voice made others live,  
And Immortality did often give;  
And yet though such he were;  
Though thus the mighty man has done  
The mighty man (alas!) is gone:  
He, he is gone and left us here  
To doubt if heaven can such another send,  
Or what for us it does intend,  
For all our joys and hopes are frighted flown  
Ere since the whole Church heard by a catholic groan  
The Doctors gone.   

III.  
Open great volumn of Fame, open wide,  
Written fair and full on every side;  
To all the world his story show,  
Though all the learned world already know  
But Fame, be elegant like him;  
Be acquaint, be copious, and not obscure;  
And Book unsullied be and trim;  
Have a large character; but specially be sure without, within  
No blot, no stain be seen,  
For this to latest ages must endure.   

IV.  
He was the man, so pure, so innocent,  
So careless of forbidden fruit,  
Richly supplied with Natures own recruit;  
So masculine his soul, and so content  
To be but man; so little bend  
To vice, that you might call  
Him one not bruised by Adam's fall.  
i've never but with admiration seen  
His generous looks, his glorious mien,  
They made me think of heaven, and of the Saints above.  
So Angels live, and smile, and love;  
And one might guests as soon, that they  
Had ancient scores to pay,  
And smelled our Grandsire's mouldy clay.   

V.  
So vast his knowledge, he  
Had tasted oft of each allowed tree,  
On all their sweets had daily fed  
The Bird of Paradise, he kindly bred  
A gaulless Dove within the Serpent's head:  
The Cherubs bowed, and sheathed their swords;  
For's tongue had all the charms of words,  
All that language and wit affords,  
And new and fitter names did wear;  
And's lucky pen (as if a pencil 'twere)  
Made gold, by guilding it, more golden to appear.  
Ye, wisdoms Sons with him there's lost  
A Vatican of learned things, which cost  
A Treasury of precious time; but grieve ye most  
For undiscovered Arts and Sciences,  
And what is excellent in those or these;  
What never was, what never shall be found,  
With him lie buried under ground.   

VI  
Had he been where the Lycaonian throng  
Thought those two Prelates Gods in humane shape;  
He scarcely could escape  
Their worship, and a canonising Song;  
jove for his presence, Mercury for his tongue.  
Had he been thine, fond Rome, th' hadst gloried more  
In him then all thy wondrous Saints before;  
His birth had famous been and great,  
His life a golden legend should repeat;  
The Hero dead had sainted been; and soon  
His Relics miracles must have done,  
Whilst his the Rubric names did far outshine;  
Yet though thy native, he had not been thine;  
Strong prejudice his freeborn soul  
Custom and interest were never able to control:  
Could my weak voice make Fame's trump louder sound,  
I'd speak thy praise the Universe around;  
Great Saint! thy humblest votary;  
A thousand hymns I would bestow,  
Alas! ten thousand would not do:  
Too big the subject, and too straight the Poetry,  
For all that can be bravely said is due to thee.   

VII.  
Oft have I thought, and still admired,  
Religion's Sons in blacks attired  
Black, nature's mourning veil; a hue  
More dismal far than cypress or the yew!  
Black! that checks the ●oying beams of light:  
Black! the mantle of forsaken night:  
Canonic habit of a Tragedy!  
Misfortune's dress! Death's livery!  
There was of yore (and, yet there scarce could be)  
Religion's darling, an illustrious he,  
bright Saint, like thee;  
Whose face did shine  
When thou didst preach God's Law, like thine,  
Who lighted the bewildered host  
With a dark Lantern, a cloud and flaming post,  
Till in Mount Neboes' vale their guide and light they lost;  
For some such loss as theirs or ours, I guess  
The mystic train of men profess  
An art of death, and ghostly things do talk,  
And ever since in mourning gravely walk.   

VIII.  
Such was the mitred man  
Our great Diocesan,  
Whose Crosier awed our murmuring land,  
As he those tribes with a miraculous Wand;  
Whose eye not dim, but nature's heat entire;  
The sacrifice on th' altar did expire:  
His sacred fever, his ardent love  
Heaved him to Heaven, and to those flames above;  
jehovah sucked, and kissed his soul away,  
As Rabbins of Israel's Prophet say:  
Or as the Tishbite in his fiery coach  
Road up tothth' Gate, and Heavens bright palace did approach:  
Strange was his death, and strange his grave!  
And our great Prophet too ascended so;  
O had he left his mantle here below!  
A harder thing than Shaphats Son we crave,  
A double portion of thy spirit may thy Successors have.   

IX.  
How poor, how short a thing is all  
The time which here we living call!  
Scarce, is our race begun,  
Ere half our race is run;  
The noble prize how very few have won?  
With Tim's quick wings to death we fly  
As swiftly as the hours; and you and I,  
Reader and all must die.  
Stay serious thought, prithee stay;  
See how apt 'tis to flee away!  
When th' undiscerned hand does snatch us hence,  
For what good deed expect we recompense?  
When we are tumbled into dust,  
What can Fame say, if it be true and just?  
We must like common people die,  
Nothing but vulgar in our Elegy;  
There's nothing of our own  
To be by future ages known;  
Our memories amongst undistinguished beasts are thrown.   

X.  
Thy fate, blessed soul, cannot be such,  
Whom none could prise, whom none could praise too much:  
My Beads I'll bid before thy venerable shrine,  
Who like the Stars, to which th' art gone, didst shine:  
I fear my rhimes, my love  
So ill expressed, may libels prove;  
For what is set too high, no man can reach,  
But in thy stile, none ought of thee to preach;  
To read the Text again is the best gloss;  
Thy glorious Works can praise thee most; thy name  
Shall be preserved by th' spicy breath of Fame!  
Support and ornament o'th' Christian Cross!  
The Church's Doctor! the Catholic loss!   

XI.  
But though the Doctor's dead,  
Though from the Fane the Oracle is fled,  
The Temple still is hallowed;  
His sacred ashes still are there;  
I'll humbly pay a fie, a tear:  
Rest holy clay,  
Slumber till the judgement day;  
Devout cinders! contrite dust!  
Mild heart! free from cank'ring rust!  
Learned brain! eloquent tongue!  
Charms of the attentive throng!  
Bright cheerful looks! which ne'er  
Envy or grief, anger or fear,  
Though they have tried a thousand times and mo●e,  
Could make you pale before!  
Pious breaths! you'll sigh no more, but sleep:  
Rest closed eyes! no more you'll weep:  
Rest facred clay,  
Slumber till the judgement day!  
Thus I said, and as I said,  
The awful Relic made me bow my head,  
What was in life so great, is something great when dead.   

XII.  
His soul from golden Fetters free,  
Rapt to its own dear liberty,  
To highest Heaven knew all the ways,  
For there't had been ten thousand times in prayer and praise,  
Wrapped in a commendatory prayer,  
A mouthful of artic late Air,  
— Air rarifyed with hearty zeal  
was its first vehicle;  
A nimble Cherub quickly flies  
From the best wardrobe in the skies;  
For soon the news had filled th●se starry rooms,  
The Prelate comes;  
The welcome guest is quickly clothed upon  
With A bes of pure etherial lawn;  
Subtle as Angel's joy, and fine  
As is the breath divine:  
Clad in that Robe of white,  
Of soft and never withering light,  
He gently passes through  
A long admiring row  
Of sainted Ghosts to martyr Charle's wa●n  
Come, Tayler, come;  
Here's Hammond, there is Sanderson:  
The lesser Angels all make room,  
And they embrace— ill natured men! in vain  
Ye kept these three from the entreating Sovereign:  
Enter bright Soul this general Convention,  
This Choir of Priests; hither's thy translation,  
Bishop Elect! there shortly will be given  
To thee a Diocese in the large Hierarchy of Heaven.   
FINIS,