Mourn widdowd Iland, Mourn, your Pan is dead. <br />Mourn ye unhappy flocks your Sheapherd Pan is fled; <br />Around your grief in dolefull straines convey, <br />& Lett ym in sad Eccho's dy away, <br />As sympathising wth their masters care, <br />As if they felt th' unlucky newes they bear, <br />Of this so true a saint heav'n seem'd to send him here. <br />To shew how good in innocence we were: <br />So true a saint.— <br />We thought he was no man, but from ye skyes <br />(as there were oft of old) some angell in disguise, <br />But see to undeceive us to our grief, he dies. <br />He was with so good thoughts so freely springing blest, <br />ye divine garden so few briars did molest, <br />As if a Paradise were in his breast. <br />Serene his mind as heaven did appear; <br />His lookes serene as mercy's self might wear; <br />His actions might in Justice scales be try'd; <br />When ere he speak & heav'n a theam suppli'd, <br />Hed melt ye rockiest hearts like Moses to a tide. <br />But now he setts, his paines & toiles are o're, <br />& heav'n rewards ye seer with all his store: <br />He's spent wth doing good, & now lies down at ease <br />Stretcht on ye Pillows of æternall peace. <br />So ye fam'd Pithian Priestess when her soul <br />With ye demanded Oracle is full, <br />Vext with ye God yt rages in her breast, <br />Nature is tir'd, her spirits are opprest, <br />She flyes to sacred groves, & sinkes away to rest.<br /><br />Thomas Parnell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-ye-bishop-of-meaths-death/
