AN
ELEGY,
On the Death of the Reverend, Learned. and Pious
William Bell, D.D.
Vicar of S. Sepulchres; who Died July the 19th, 1683.
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WHAT Bell is that? I fear it will be Se'd,
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Englands no Ringing Island, Bell is Dead.
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Grave Oxfords Fell, and Lincolns Mighty T----
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Chester, and Brave Ely, and Sarum;
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Are somewhat out of Tune (I fear) to see
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Bell cast anew, to take his full Degree.
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Sorrow each Breast, Silence each Tongue hath ceas'd,
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Since the Bell Told, that, Doctor Bell's Deceas'd.
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In Silence Grieve, since Silent now he is,
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Who when he Spake, all Silent would be. 'Tis
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A Tacite mournful Text, the Winding Sheet,
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Makes Poets Sigh; Verses give up your Feet,
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"Who ever Sob'd in Numbers? Can a Groan
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"Be Quaver'd out by soft Division?
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If then our Loss be rightly understood,
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No News, our Land should Weep into a Flood:
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Yet Bords your Aid; for here's a Choice Theam,
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Your Wits can never Jump to the Extream:
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But in Defect; no Praise is Excessive,
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On Excellencies most Superlative,
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Reader, I Pray, let not your Virgin Faith,
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Scorn to Submit, to what your Poet Saith;
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Without Hyperbole; who knew him, Kens
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He was a Pattern of all Excellence,
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So Excellent, that even to Express,
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His Excellencies seems to make them less.
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A Mighty Loyalist, and Truths Defendant,
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Of Papists and Sectaries, a sweet Opponent:
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Panduct of all Knowledg; for no Prelate
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More Learn'd, or more Profound, or any Legate,
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Or any Pope, Jesuit, Cardinal:
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In Fine, more Learn'd, more Critical than all.
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and Zeal in him so Sweetly met,
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"His Pulpit seem'd a Second Olivet.
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"Where from his Lips he would deliver Things,
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"As though some Seraphims had clasp'd his Wings.
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painful Sermons were so neatly dress'd,
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"As if an Anthem were in Prose express'd.
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His Words were Pat & Smooth, & yielding much
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Of Nectar and Ambrosia, they were such
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As would allure Angels, at any Rate,
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To be his Auditors (if possible) Fate,
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Made him a Tenant of a longer Date,
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Than those ill Husbands that so Live, (we see,)
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As to neglect to Die, and Die to be.
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Unfit to Live again; he Liv'd to Die,
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And Di'd to Live unto Eternity.
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Whose Conscience, both to God and Man,
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Was equal inoffensive, and the Span
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Of whose unspotted Life deserves to Be
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Preserv'd in Mind by his Posterity,
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Bless'd Soul departed, if to any one
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O' th' Saints above to Thee I'd Pray alone.
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And in my Kalendar I'd place thy Fall
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And make thy Dying-day Canonical.
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"Thy Ghost inspires our Muse, what Spirit Ran
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"In Thee before, Lives now in every Man.
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Yet can no Muse express how thou art Blest
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With Saints above. Let Angels speak the Rest.
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The EPITAPH.
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The Vicar of S. Sepulchres Lyeth
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Within this Sepulcher; who Craveth
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His Name, the Bells will that declare,
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To tell his Worth, who able are,
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But He himself? Yet all can tell,
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The Doctor liv'd (and dy'd) so well.
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