ELEGY UPON DOCTOR CHADDERTON, THE FIRST MASTER OF EMANUEL COLLEGE by JOHN CLEVELAND

PARDON, dear Saint, that we so late
With lazy sighs bemoan thy fate,
And with an after-shower of verse
And tears, we thus bedew thy hearse.
Till now, alas! we did not weep,
Because we thought thou didst but sleep.
Thou liv'dst so long we did not know
Whether thou couldst now die or no.
We looked still when thou shouldst arise
And ope the casements of thine eyes.
Thy feet, which have been used so long
To walk, we thought, must still go on.
Thine ears, after a hundred year,
Might now plead custom for to hear.
Upon thy head that reverend snow
Did dwell some fifty years ago:
And then thy cheeks did seem to have
The sad resemblance of a grave.
Wert thou e'er young? For truth I hold
And do believe thou wert born old.
There's none alive, I'm sure, can say
They knew thee young, but always grey.
And dost thou now, venerable oak,
Decline at Death's unhappy stroke?
Tell me, dear son, why didst thou die
And leave's to write an elegy?
We're young, alas! and know thee not.
Send up old Abram and grave Lot.
Let them write thy Epitaph and tell
The world thy worth; they kenned thee well.
When they were boys, they heard thee preach
And thought an angel did them teach.
Awake them then: and let them come
And score thy virtues on thy tomb,
That we at those may wonder more
Than at thy many years before.

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