| |
| DEATH, be not proud, thy hand gave not this blow; | |
| Sin was her captive, whence thy power doth flow; | |
| The executioner of wrath thou art, | |
| But to destroy the just is not thy part. | |
| Thy coming, terror, anguish, grief denounces; | 5 |
| Her happy state, courage, ease, joy pronounces. | |
| From out the crystal palace of her breast, | |
| The clearer soul was call’d to endless rest | |
| —Not by the thundering voice, wherewith God threats, | |
| But as with crowned saints in heaven He treats— | 10 |
| And, waited on by angels, home was brought, | |
| To joy that it through many dangers sought. | |
| The key of mercy gently did unlock | |
| The doors ’twixt heaven and it, when life did knock. | |
| Nor boast the fairest frame was made thy prey, | 15 |
| Because to mortal eyes it did decay. | |
| A better witness than thou art, assures, | |
| That though dissolved, it yet a space endures; | |
| No dram thereof shall want or loss sustain, | |
| When her best soul inhabits it again. | 20 |
| Go then to people cursed before they were; | |
| Their souls in triumph to thy conquest bear. | |
| Glory not thou thyself in these hot tears | |
| Which our face, not for her, but our harm wears; | |
| The mourning livery given by grace, not thee, | 25 |
| Which wills our souls in these streams washed should be; | |
| And on our hearts, her memory’s best tomb, | |
| In this her epitaph doth write thy doom. | |
| Blind were those eyes, saw not how bright did shine | |
| Through flesh’s misty veil those beams divine; | 30 |
| Deaf were the ears, not charm’d with that sweet sound | |
| Which did i’ th’ spirit’s instructed voice abound; | |
| Of flint the conscience, did not yield and melt, | |
| At what in her last act it saw and felt. | |
| Weep not, nor grudge then to have lost her sight, | 35 |
| Taught thus, our after stay’s but a short night; | |
| But by all souls not by corruption choked | |
| Let in high raisèd notes that power be invoked, | |
| Calm the rough seas by which she sails to rest | |
| From sorrows here to a kingdom ever blest. | 40 |
| And teach this hymn of her with joy, and sing, | |
| ‘The grave no conquest gets, Death hath no sting.’ | |
| |
