AN ELEGY Upon the L. Bishop of London John King
Sad Relick of a blessed Soul! whose trust
We sealed up in this religious dust.
O do not thy low Exequies suspect
As the cheap arguments of our neglect.
'Twas a commanded duty that thy grave
As little pride as thou thy self should have.
Therefore thy covering is an humble stone,
And but a word for thy inscription.
When those that in the same earth neighbour thee,
Have each his Chronicle and Pedigree:
They have their waving pennons and their flagges,
(Of Matches and Alliance formal bragges.)
VVhen thou (although from Ancestors thou came
Old as the Heptarchy, great as thy Name)
Sleep'st there inshrin'd in thy admired parts,
And hast no Heraldry but thy deserts.
Yet let not Them their prouder Marbles boast,
For They rest with less honour, though more cost.
Go, search the world, and with your Mattocks wound
The groaning bosom of the patient ground:
Digge from the hidden veins of her dark womb
All that is rare and precious for a tomb:
Yet when much treasure, and more time is spent
You must grant His the nobler Monument.
Whose Faith stands ore Him for a Hearse, and hath
The Resurrection for His Epitaph.
Henry King's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (AN ELEGY Upon the L. Bishop of London John King by Henry King )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(2 June 1840 – 11 January 1928)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
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