What province hath produced a greater soul,
Between the arctic and antarctic pole,
Than Wales hath done? where Herbert's church fhall be
A lafting pyramid for him and thee.
What father of a church can you rehearse,
That gain'd more fouls to God 'twixt prose and verse ?
What orator had more magnetic strains?
What poet fuch a fancy, pen, or brains,
In our great hierarchy? fhow me the man
That fang more fadly than this dying swan,
This bird of paradife, this glowworm bright,
This philomel, this glory of the night.
Seeing the deluge rage, the clouds still dark,
Reftless below, return'd up to the ark,
This facred dove, before he scaled the skies,
Rarely fet forth, the world's great facrifice;
A melting poem, all the rest so high,
That the dull world may learn to live and die.
Never did pen humane, or earing brain,
Express or vent such a seraphic strain.
You that are poets born, contend and strive,
In fpite of death, dead Herbert to revive.
Bring wreaths of larix, an immortal tree,
To Salem's facred hill, for obfequy.
Parnaffus' mount was never fo divine,
To turn the mufe's water into wine.
The Delphian poet went from thence to Rome,
And there was entertain'd as major dome;
And though the bishop and his clerks do boast,
That old falfe prophet there doth rule the roast.
A lafting spring of blood fprings near that hill,
There he did bathe; there you your phials fill.
"Twill melt your hearts to view those desolations;
Yet from that spring flows highest inspirations.
Therein your annals fuch encomiums bring
To his memorial, as the doves in spring.
Such moan as Egypt's viceroy once did make
At Abel-Mizraim for his father's fake,
Make your shrill trumpets: from that thorny hill
Benhinnon's valleys with amazement fill.
To the fepulchre go, there facrifice