ODE Upon the Death of Mr. COWLEY.  

1.  
HE who would worthily adorn his Hearse,  
Should write in his own way, in his immortal Verse:  
But who can such majestic Numbers write?  
With such inimitable light?  
His high and noble flights to reach  
'Tis not the art of Precept that can teach.  
The world's grown old since Pindar, and to breed  
Another such did twenty ages need.   

2.  
At last another Pindar came,  
Great as the first in Genius and in Fame;  
But that the first in Greek, a conquering Language, sung  
And the last wrote but in an Island Tongue.  
Wit, thought, invention in them both do flow  
As Torrents tumbling from the mountains go.  
Though the great Roman Lyric do maintain  
That none can equal Pindar's strain;  
Cowley with words as full and thoughts as high  
As ever Pindar did, does fly;  
Of Kings and Heros he as boldly sings,  
And flies above the Clouds, yet never wets his wings.   

3.  
As fire aspiring, as the Sea profound,  
Nothing in Nature can his fancy bound;  
As swift as Lightning in its course,  
And as resistless in his force.  
Whilst other Poets, like Bees who range the field  
To gather what the Flowers will yield,  
Glean matter with much toil and pain  
To bring forth Verses in an humble strain;  
He sees about him round,  
Possessed at once of all that can be found:  
To his illuminated eye  
All things created open lie,  
That all his thoughts so clear and so perspicuous be,  
That whatsoever he describes we see;  
Our Souls are with his passions fired,  
And he who does but read him is inspired.   

4.  
Pindar to Thebes, where first he drew his breath,  
Though for his sake his race was saved from death  
By th' Macedonian Youth, did not more honour do  
Than Cowley does his Friends and Country too.  
Had Horace lived his wit to understand,  
He ne'er had England thought a rude inhospitable Land;  
Rome might have blushed, and Athens been ashamed  
To hear a remote Britain named,  
Who for his parts does match, if not exceed,  
The greatest men that they did either breed.   

5.  
If he had flourished when Augustus swayed,  
Whose peaceful Sceptre the whole world obeyed,  
Account of him Maecenas would have made;  
And from the Country shade,  
Him into th' Cabinet have ta'en  
To divert Cesar's cares and charm his pain:  
For nothing can such Balm infuse  
Into a wearied mind as does a noble Muse.   

6.  
It is now as 'twas in former days,  
When all the Streets of Rome were strowed with Bays  
To receive Petrarch, who through Arches rode,  
Triumphal Arches, honoured as a Demy-God;  
Not for Towns conquered, or for Battles won,  
But Victories which were more his own,  
For Victories of Wit, and Victories of Art,  
In which blind undiscerning Fortune had no part.   

7.  
Though Cowley near such honours did attain,  
As long as Petrarch's, Cowley's name shall reign;  
'Tis but his dross that's in the Grave,  
His memory Fame from Death shall save;  
His Bays shall flourish, and be ever green,  
When those of Conquerors are not to be seen.   
Nec tibi mors ipsa superstes erit.  
Thomas higgon's.  
FINIS.   

London, Printed for H. Herringman, at the Blue Anchor in the Lower-walk of the New Exchange. 1667.