Elegy on the Earl of Rochester

Deep waters silent roll; so grief like mine Tears never can relieve, nor words define. Stop then, stop your vain source, weak springs of grief, Let tears flow from their eyes whom tears relieve. They from their heads shew the light trouble there, Could my heart weep, its sorrows 'twould declare: When drops of blood, my heart, thou'st lost; thy pride, The cause of all thy hopes and fears, thy guide! He would have led thee right in Wisdom's way, And 'twas thy fault whene'er thou went'st astray: And since thou stray'd'st when guided and led on, Thou wilt be surely lost now left alone. It is thy Elegy I write, not his; He lives immortal and in highest bliss. But thou art dead, alas! my heart, thou'rt dead: He lives, that lovely soul for ever fled, But thou 'mongst crowds on earth art buried. Great was thy loss, which thou canst ne'er express, Nor was th' insensible dull nation's less; He civiliz'd the rude, and taught the young, Made fools grow wise; such artful magic hung Upon his useful kind instructing tongue. His lively wit was of himself a part, Not, as in other men, the work of art; For, though his learning like his wit was great, Yet sure all learning came below his wit; As God's immediate gifts are better far Than those we borrow from our likeness here, He was—but I want words, and ne'er can tell, Yet this I know, he did mankind excell.

He was what no man ever was before, Nor can indulgent nature give us more, For, to make him, she exhausted all her store.