On the Death of the Bishop of Ely.[1]Anno Aetates 17.

My lids with grief were tumid yet,     And still my sullied cheek was wet     With briny dews profusely shed     For venerable Winton dead,[2]     When Fame, whose tales of saddest sound     Alas! are ever truest found,     The news through all our cities spread     Of yet another mitred head     By ruthless Fate to Death consign'd,     Ely, the honour of his kind.     At once, a storm of passion heav'd     My boiling bosom, much I grieved     But more I raged, at ev'ry breath     Devoting Death himself to death.     With less revenge did Naso[3] teem     When hated Ibis was his theme;     With less, Archilochus,[4] denied     The lovely Greek, his promis'd bride.     But lo! while thus I execrate,     Incens'd, the Minister of Fate,     Wondrous accents, soft, yet clear,     Wafted on the gale I hear.     Ah, much deluded! lay aside     Thy threats and anger misapplied.     Art not afraid with sounds like these     T'offend whom thou canst not appease?     Death is not (wherefore dream'st thou thus?)     The son of Night and Erebus,     Nor was of fel[1] Erynnis born[5]     In gulphs, where Chaos rules forlorn,     But sent from God, his presence leaves,     To gather home his ripen'd sheaves,     To call encumber'd souls away     From fleshly bonds to boundless day,      (As when the winged Hours excite,     And summon forth the Morning-light)     And each to convoy to her place     Before th'Eternal Father's face.     But not the wicked-Them, severe     Yet just, from all their pleasures here     He hurries to the realms below,     Terrific realms of penal woe!     Myself no sooner heard his call     Than, scaping through my prison-wall,     I bade adieu to bolts and bars,     And soar'd with angels to the stars,     Like Him of old, to whom 'twas giv'n     To mount, on fiery wheels, to heav'n.     Bootes' wagon,[6] slow with cold     Appall'd me not, nor to behold     The sword that vast Orion draws,     Or ev'n the Scorpion's horrid claws.[7]     Beyond the Sun's bright orb I fly,     And far beneath my feet descry     Night's dread goddess, seen with awe,     Whom her winged dragons draw.     Thus, ever wond'ring at my speed     Augmented still as I proceed,     I pass the Planetary sphere,     The Milky Way--and now appear     Heav'ns crystal battlements, her door     Of massy pearl, and em'rald floor.     But here I cease. For never can     The tongue of once a mortal man     In suitable description trace     The pleasures of that happy place,     Suffice it that those joys divine     Are all, and all for ever, mine.