Sickly, alas, short liv'd, aborted bee

Those carcasse verses, whose soule is not shee.
And can shee, who no longer would be shee,
Being such a tabernacle, stoop to be

In paper wrapt; or when shee would not lie
In such a house, dwell in an eligie?

But 'tis no matter; wee may well allow
Verse to live so long as the world will now,
For her death wounded it. The world containes
Princes for armes, and counsellors for braines,
Lawyers for tongues, divines for hearts, and more,
The rich for stomackes, and for backs the poore;
The officers for hands, merchants for feet,
By which, remote and distant countries meet.
But those fine spirits which do tune, and set
This organ, are those peeces, which beget
Wonder and love, and these were shee; and shee
Being spent, the world must needs decrepit bee;
For since death will proceed to triumph still,
He can finde nothing, after her, to kill,
Except the world itselfe, so great was shee.
Thus brave and confident may nature bee,
Death cannot give her such another blow,
Because shee cannot such another show.
But must wee say she's dead? may't not be said
That as a sundred clocke is peecemeale laid,
Not to be lost, but by the maker's hand
Repollish'd, without errour then to stand;
Or as the affrique niger streame enwombs
It selfe into the earth, and after comes
(Having first made a naturall bridge, to pass
For many leagues) farre greater than it was,
May't not be said, that her grave shall restore
Her, greater, purer, firmer, then before?

Heaven may say this, and joy in't, but can wee
Who live, and lacke her, here this vantage see?
What is't to us, alas, if there have beene
An angell made a throne, or Cherubin?
Wee lose by't and as aged men are glad,
Being tastlesse growne, to joy in joyes they had,
So now the sick starv'd world must feed upon
This joy, that we had her, who now is gone.
Rejoyce then nature, and this world, that you,
Fearing the last fires hasting to subdue
Your force and vigour, ere it were neere gone,
Wisely bestow'd and laid it all on one;
One, whose cleare body was so pure and thinne,
Because it need disguise no thought within.
'Twas but a through-light scarfe, her minde t'inroule ;
Or exhalation breath'd out from her soule.

One, whom all men who durst no more, admir'd :
And whom, who ere had worke enough, desir'd;
As when a temple's built, saints emulate

To which of them, it shall be consecrate.
But, as when heaven lookes on us with new eyes,
Those new starres every artist exercise,

What place they should assigne to them they doubt,
Argue, and agree not, till those starres goe out:
So the world studied whose this peece should be,
Till shee can be no bodies else, nor shee:
But like a lampe of balsamum, desir'd
Rather t'adorne, then last she soon expir'd,
Cloath'd in her virgin white integritie,

For marriage, though it doth not staine, doth die.
To scape th' infirmities which wait upon
Woman, she went away, before sh' was one;
And the world's busie noyse to overcome,
Tooke so much death, as serv'd for opium ;

For though she could not, nor could chuse to dye,
She 'ath yeelded to too long an extasie:

Hee, which not knowing her said history,
Should come to reade the book of destiny,

How faire, and chast, humble, and high she'ad been,

Much promis'd, much perform'd, at not fifteene, And measuring future things, by things before, Should turne the leafe to reade, and reade no more, Would thinke that either destiny mistooke

Or that some leaves were torne out of the booke.

But 'tis not so; fate did but usher her

To yeares of reason's use, and then inferre
Her destiny to her selfe, which liberty

She tooke, but for thus much, thus much to die.
Her modestie not suffering her to bee

Fellow-commissioner with destinie,

She did no more but die; if after her
Any shall live, which dare true good prefer ;
Every such person is her deligate,

T'accomplish that which should have been her fate;
They shall make up that booke and shall have thanks
Of fate, and her, for filling up their blankes.
For future vertuous deeds are legacies,
Which from the gift of her example rise;
And 'tis in heav'n part of spiritual mirth,
To see how well the good play her, on earth.

An Elegy

TO HIS TUTOR THOMAS YOUNG,

Chaplain to the English Factory at Hamburg,

AND AFTERWARDS

VICAR OF STOWMARKET, SUFFOLK,

BY JOHN MILTON.

a

Thomas Young, the private preceptor of Milton before he was sent to St. Paul's School, was a native of Essex. Aubrey, in his MS. life, calls him " "puritan in Essex, who cut his hair short." In 1627, he was presented to the vicarage of Stowmarket. In 1628, Milton. in a letter dated from Cambridge, promises him a visit at his country house in Suffolk; and compliments him on the independency of mind, with which he maintained himself, like a Grecian Sage, or an old Roman Consul, on the profits of a small farm. In the same year, however, in consequence of his religious opinions, and the persecution of the Puritans by Abp. Laud, he was compelled to retire to the Continent, where he obtained the appointment of Minister to the British merchants at Hamburg. He appears to have returned to England in or before the year 1640, when the long parliament offered to him and to his brotherexiles protection from the tyranny of the High Commission and the Star-chamber courts. In 1643, he was

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appointed a Member of the Assembly of Divines, nhere he was a constant attendant, and one of the authors of the book, called "Smectymnuus," defended by Milton. On the visitation of the University of Cambridge by the Earl of Manchester, he was preferred from a Preachership in Duke's Place, London, to the Mastership of Jesus College, Cambridge, and admitted by the Earl in person, who came to the College Chapel, put him into the master's seat, and with some other formalities gave him the investiture of that headship, Apr. 12, 1644. He retained this situation, with much credit to himself, and advantage to the College, till Nov. 14, 1650, when his refusal of subscription to the Engagement occasioned his ejectment. Clarke, a calvinistic biographer, attests that he was a man of great learning, of much prudence and piety, and of great ability and fidelity in the work of the ministry. There is a Sermon by Young, of a comfortable length, intitled "Hope's Incouragement, preached before the House of Commons, on a Fast-day, Feb. 28, 1644. Printed by "order of the House, Lond. 1644," 4to. At the foot of the dedication he styles himself "Thomas Young, "Sancti Evangelii in comitatu Suffolciensi minister." Another of his publications, as I apprehend, is a learned work in Latin, called "Dies Dominica," on the observation of Sunday. Printed, anno 1639, no place, 4to. The first and fourth of Milton's Familiar Epistles, both very respectful and affectionate, are to this Thomas Young. See Prose Works, Vol. 2. 565. 567. Whatever were Young's religious instructions, Milton professes to have received from this learned master his first introduction to the study of poetry. He died at Stowmarket, where he had been Vicar twenty-eight years, Nov. the 28th, 1655, as appears from the following extract from the Parish Register, "Dr. Younge, Clerk, was buried the first day of De "cember, 1655; and was interred in that church, where the following inscription records his memory: