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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419811" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Eleonora : A Panegyrical</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Dedicated to the Memory of the Late Countess of Abingdon.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As when some great and gracious monarch dies,<br>Soft whispers first and mournful rise<br>Among the sad attendants; then the sound<br>Soon gathers voice and spreads the news around,<br>Through town and country, till the dreadful blast<br>Is blown to distant colonies at last;<br>Who then perhaps were offering vows in vain<br>For his long life and for his happy reign:<br>So slowly, by degrees, unwilling Fame<br>Did matchless Eleonora's fate proclaim,<br>Till public as the loss the news became.<br>The nation felt it in the extremest parts,<br>With eyes o'erflowing and with bleeding hearts;<br>But most of the poor, whom daily she supplied,<br>Beginning to be such but when she died.<br>For, while she lived, they slept in peace by night,<br>Secure of bread as of returning light,<br>And with such firm dependence on the day,<br>That need grew pampered and forgot to pray:<br>So sure the dole, so ready at their call,<br>They stood prepared to see the manna fall.<br>Such multitudes she fed, she clothed, she nurst,<br>That she her self might fear her wanting first.<br>Of her five talents other five she made;<br>Heaven, that had largely given, was largely paid;<br>And in few lives, in wondrous few, we find<br>A fortune better fitted to the mind.<br>Nor did her alms from ostentation fall,<br>Or proud desire of praise; the soul gave all:<br>Unbribed it gave; or, if a bribe appear,<br>No less than Heaven, to heap huge treasures there. <br>Want passed for merit at her open door:<br>Heaven saw her safely might increase his poor,<br>And trust their sustenance with her so well<br>As not to be at charge of miracle.<br>None could be needy whom she saw or knew;<br>All in the compass of her sphere she drew:<br>He who could touch her garment was as sure,<br>As the first Christians of the Apostles' cure.<br>The distant heard by fame her pious deeds,<br>And laid her up for their extremest needs, <br>A future cordial for a fainting mind;<br>For what was ne'er refused all hoped to find,<br>Each in his turn: the rich might freely come,<br>As to a friend; but to the poor 'twas a home.<br>As to some holy house the afflicted came,<br>The hunger-starved, the naked, and the lame;<br>Want and diseases fled before her name.<br>For zeal like hers her servants were too slow;<br>She was the first, where need required, to go, <br>Her self the foundress, and attendant too.<br>Sure she had guests sometimes to entertain,<br>Guests in disguise, of her great Master's train:<br>Her Lord him self might come, for aught we know,<br>Since in a servant's form he lived below;<br>Beneath her roof he might be pleased to stay:<br>Or some benighted angel in his way<br>Might ease his wings, and seeing Heaven appear<br>In its best work of mercy, think it there,<br>Where all the deeds of charity and love <br>Were in as constant method as above,<br>All carried on; all of a piece with theirs; <br>As free her alms, as diligent her cares;<br>As loud her praises, and as warm her prayers.<br>Yet was she not profuse; but feared to waste,<br>And wisely managed, that the stock might last;<br>That all might be supplied, and she not grieve,<br>When crowds appeared, she had not to relieve:<br>Which to prevent, she still increased her store;<br>Laid up, and spared, that she might give the more.<br>So Pharaoh, or some greater king than he, <br>Provided for the seventh necessity;<br>Taught from above his magazines to frame,<br>That famine was prevented ere it came.<br>Thus Heaven, though all-sufficient, shows a thrift<br>In his economy, and bounds his gift;<br>Creating for our day one single light;<br>And his reflection too supplies the night.<br>Perhaps a thousand other words, that lie<br>Remote from us and latent in the sky,<br>Are lightened by his beams, and kindly nurst;<br>Of which our earthly dunghill is the worst. <br>Now, as all virtues keep the middle line,<br>Yet somewhat more to one extreme incline,<br>Such was her soul, abhorring avarice,<br>Bounteous, but almost bounteous to a vice:<br>Had she given more, it had profusion been,<br>And turned the excess of goodness into sin.<br>These virtues raised her fabric to the sky;<br>For that which is next Heaven is charity. <br>But as high turrets for their airy steep<br>Require foundations in proportion deep, <br>And lofty cedars as far upward shoot<br>As to the nether heavens they drive the root,<br>So low did her secure foundation lie;<br>She was not humble, but humility.<br>Scarcely she knew that she was great or fair<br>Or wise beyond what other women are,<br>Or, which is better, knew, but never durst compare.<br>For to be conscious of what all admire,<br>And not be vain, advances virtue higher.<br>But still she found, or rather thought she found,<br>Her own worth wanting, others' to abound;<br>Ascribed above their due to every one, <br>Unjust and scanty to her self alone.<br>Such her devotion was as might give rules<br>Of speculation to disputing schools,<br>And teach us equally the scales to hold<br>Betwixt the two extremes of hot and cold;<br>That pious heat may moderately prevail,<br>And we be warmed, but not be scorched with zeal.<br>Business might shorten, not disturb her prayer;<br>Heaven had the best, if not the greater share.<br>An active life long orisons forbids;<br>Yet still she prayed, for still she prayed by deeds.<br>Her every day was Sabbath; only free<br>From hours of prayer, for hours of charity.<br>Such as the Jews from servile toil releast,<br>Where works of mercy were a part of rest;<br>Such as blest angels exercise above, <br>Varied with sacred hymns and acts of love; <br>Such Sabbaths as that one she now enjoys, <br>Even that perpetual one, which she employs<br>(For such vicissitudes in Heaven there are)<br>In praise alternate and alternate prayer. <br>All this she practised here; that when she sprung<br>Amidst the quires, at the first sight she sung;<br>Sung, and was sung her self, in angels' lays; <br>For, praising her, they did her Maker praise.<br>All offices of Heaven so well she knew,<br>Before she came, that nothing there as new;<br>And she was so familiarly received<br>As one returning, not as one arrived.<br>Muse, down again precipitate thy flight.<br>For how can mortal eyes sustain immortal light?<br>But as the sun in water we can bear,<br>Yet not the sun, but his reflection there,<br>So let us view her here in what she was,<br>And take her image in this watery glass:<br>Yet look not every lineament to see;<br>Some will be cast in shades, and some will be<br>So lamely drawn, you scarcely know 'tis she.<br>For where such various virtues we recite,<br>'Tis like the milky way, all over bright,<br>But sown so thick with stars, 'tis undistinguished light.<br>Her virtue, not her virtues, let us call;<br>For one heroic comprehends them all:<br>One, as a constellation is but one,<br>Though 'tis a train of stars that, rolling on,<br>Rise in their turn and in the Zodiac run,<br>Ever in motion; now 'tis faith ascends,<br>Now hope, now charity, that upward tends,<br>And downwards with diffusive good descends.<br>As in perfumes composed with art and cost,<br>'Tis hard to say what scent is uppermost; <br>Nor this part musk or civet can we call,<br>Or amber, but a rich result of all;<br>So she was all a sweet, whose every part,<br>In due proportion mixed, proclaimed the Maker's art.<br>No single virtue we could most commend,<br>Whether the wife, the mother, or the friend;<br>For she was all, in that supreme degree,<br>That as no one prevailed, so all was she. <br>The several parts lay hidden in the piece;<br>The occasion but exerted that or this.<br>A wife as tender, and as true withal, <br>As the first woman was before her fall:<br>Made for the man, of whom she was a part;<br>Made to attract his eyes and keep his heart.<br>A second Eve, but by no crime accurst;<br>As beauteous, not as brittle as the first.<br>Had she been first, still Paradise had been,<br>And death had found no entrance by her sin.<br>She not only had preserved from ill<br>Her sex and ours, but lived their pattern still.<br>Love and obedience to her lord she bore;<br>She much obeyed him, but she loved him more:<br>Not awed to duty by superior sway,<br>But taught by his indulgence to obey.<br>Thus we love God, as author of our good;<br>So subjects love just kings, or so they should.<br>Nor was it with ingratitude returned;<br>In equal fires the blissful couple burned;<br>One joy possessed them both, and in one grief they mourned.<br>His passion still improved; he loved so fast,<br>As if he feared each day would be her last.<br>Too true a prophet to foresee the fate<br>That should so soon divide their happy state:<br>When he to Heaven entirely must restore <br>That love, that heart, where he went halves before.<br>Yet as the soul is all in every part,<br>So God and he might each have all her heart.<br>So had her children too; for charity<br>Was not more fruitful or more kind than she;<br>Each under other by degrees they grew;<br>A goodly perspective of distant view.<br>Anchises looked not with so pleased a face,<br>In numbering o'er his future Roman race,<br>And marshalling the heroes of his name,<br>As in their order next to light they came.<br>Nor Cybele with half so kind an eye<br>Surveyed her sons and daughters of the sky;<br>Proud, shall I say, of her immortal fruit? <br>As far as pride with heavenly minds may suit.<br>Her pious love excelled to all she bore;<br>New objects only multiplied it more.<br>And as the chosen found the pearly grain<br>As much as every vessel could contain;<br>As in the blissful vision each shall share<br>As much of glory as his soul can bear;<br>so did she love, and so dispense her care.<br>Her eldest thus, by consequence, was best,<br>As longer cultivated than the rest. <br>The babe had all that infant care beguiles,<br>And early knew his mother in her smiles:<br>But when dilated organs let in day<br>To the young soul, and gave it room to play,<br>At first aptness the maternal love<br>Those rudiments of reason did improve:<br>The tender age was pliant to command;<br>Like wax it yielded to the forming hand:<br>True to the artificer, the laboured mind<br>With ease was pious, generous, just and kind;<br>Soft for impression, from the first prepared,<br>Till virtue with long exercise grew hard:<br>With every act confirmed, and made at last <br>So durable as not to be effaced,<br>It turned to habit; and, from vices free,<br>Goodness resolved into necessity.<br>Thus fixed she virtue's image, that's her own,<br>Till the whole mother in the children shone;<br>For that was their perfection; she was such,<br>They never could express her mind too much.<br>So unexhausted her perfections were,<br>That for more children she had more to spare;<br>For souls unborn, whom her untimely death<br>Deprived of bodies and of mortal breath;<br>And, could they take the impressions of her mind,<br>Enough still left to sanctify her kind.<br>Then wonder not to see this soul extend<br>The bounds, and seek some other self, a friend:<br>As swelling seas to gentle rivers glide,<br>To seek repose, and empty out the tide,<br>So this full soul, in narrow limits pent,<br>Unable to contain her, sought a vent<br>To issue out, and in some friendly breast<br>Discharge her treasures, and securely rest:<br>To unbosom all the secrets of her heart,<br>Take good advice, but better to impart.<br>For 'tis the bliss of friendship's holy state<br>To mix their minds, and to communicate;<br>Though bodies cannot, souls can penetrate:<br>Fixed to her choice, inviolably true,<br>And wisely choosing, for she chose but few.<br>Some she must have; but in no one could find<br>A tally fitted for so large a mind.<br>The souls of friends like kings in progress are;<br>Still in their own, though from the palace far;<br>Thus her friend's heart her country dwelling was,<br>A sweet retirement to a coarser place;<br>Where pomp and ceremonies entered not,<br>Where greatness was shut out, and business well forgot.<br>This is the imperfect draught; but short as far<br>As the true height and bigness of a star<br>Exceeds the measures of the astronomer.<br>She shines above, we know; but in what place,<br>How near the throne and Heaven's imperial face,<br>By our weak optics is but vainly guest;<br>Distance and altitude conceal the rest.<br>Though all these rare endowments of the mind<br>Were in a narrow space of life confide,<br>The figure was with full perfection crowned,<br>Though not so large an orb, as truly round.<br>As when in glory, through the public place,<br>The spoils of conquered nations were to pass,<br>And but one day for triumph was allowed,<br>The Consul was constrained his pomp to crowd;<br>And so the swift procession hurried on,<br>That all, though not distinctly, might be shown;<br>So, in the straitened bounds of life confined, <br>She gave but glimpses of her glorious mind;<br>And multitudes of virtues passed along,<br>Each pressing foremost in the mighty throng,<br>Ambitious to be seen, and the make room<br>For greater multitudes that were to come.<br>Yet unemployed no minute slipped away;<br>Moments were precious in so short a stay.<br>The haste of Heaven to have her was so great<br>That some were single acts, though each complete<br>But every act stood ready to repeat.<br>Her fellow saints with busy care will look<br>For her blest name in Fate's eternal book;<br>And, pleased to be outdone, with joy will see<br>Numberless virtues, endless charity:<br>But more will wonder at so short an age<br>To find a blank beyond the thirtieth page;<br>And with a pious fear begin to doubt<br>The piece imperfect, and the rest torn out.<br>But 'twas her Saviour's time; and, could there be<br>A copy near the original, 'twas she.<br>As precious gums are not for lasting fire,<br>They but perfume the temple, and expire;<br>So was she soon exhaled, and vanished hence,<br>A short sweet odour, of a vast expense.<br>She vanished, we can scarcely say she died;<br>For but a now did heaven and earth divide:<br>She passed serenely with a single breath;<br>This moment perfect health, the next was death:<br>One sigh did her eternal bliss assure;<br>So little penance needs, when souls are almost pure.<br>As gentle dreams our waking thoughts pursue,<br>Or, one dream passed, we slide into a new;<br>So close they follow, such wild order keep<br>We think our selves awake, and are asleep;<br>So softly death succeeded life in her,<br>She did but dream of Heaven, and she was there.<br>No pains she suffered, nor expired with noise;<br>Her soul was whispered out with God's still voice;<br>As an old friend is beckoned to a feast,<br>And treated like a long familiar guest.<br>He took her as he found, but found her so,<br>As one in hourly readiness to go;<br>Even on that day, in all her trim prepared,<br>As early notice she from Heaven had heard,<br>And some descending courtier from above<br>Had given her timely warning to remove,<br>Or counselled her to dress the nuptial room,<br>For on that night the bridegroom was to come.<br>He kept his hour, and found her where she lay<br>Clothed all in whit,e the livery of the day;<br>Scarce had she sinned in thought or word or act;<br>Unless omissions were to pass for fact;<br>That hardly Death a consequence could draw,<br>To make her liable to Nature's law.<br>And that she died, we only have to show<br>The mortal part of her she left below;<br>The rest (so smooth, so suddenly she went)<br>Looked like translation through the firmament,<br>Or like the fiery car on the third errand sent. <br>O happy soul! if thou canst view from high,<br>Where thou art all intelligence, all eye,<br>If looking up to God, or down to us,<br>Thou findst that any way be pervious,<br>Survey the ruins of thy house, and see<br>Thy widowed, and thy orphan family;<br>Look on thy tender pledges left behind;<br>And, if thou canst a vacant minute find<br>From heavenly joys, that interval afford<br>To thy sad children and thy mourning lord.<br>See how they grieve, mistaken in their love,<br>And shed a beam of comfort from above;<br>Give them, as much as mortal eyes can bear,<br>A transient view of thy full glories there;<br>That they with moderate sorrow may sustain<br>And mollify their losses in thy gain.<br>Or else divide the grief; for such thou wert,<br>That should not all relations bear a part,<br>It were enough to break a single heart.<br>Let this suffice: nor thou, great saint, refuse<br>This humble tribute of no vulgar muse:<br>Who, not by cares or wants or age deprest,<br>Stems a wild deluge with a dauntless breast;<br>And dares to sing thy praises in a clime<br>Where vice triumphs and virtue is a crime;<br>Where even to draw the picture of thy mind<br>Is satire on the most of human kind:<br>Take it, while yet 'tis praise; before my rage,<br>Unsafely just, break loose on this bad age;<br>So bad, that thou thy self hadst no defence<br>From vice, but barely by departing hence. <br>Be what, and where thou art: to wish thy place<br>Were in the best presumption more than grace.<br>Thy relics (such thy works of mercy are)<br>Have in this poem been my holy care.<br>As earth thy body keeps, thy soul the sky,<br>So shall this verse preserve thy memory,<br>For thou shalt make it live, because it sings of thee.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Dryden">John Dryden</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419811" data-title="Eleonora : A Panegyrical de John Dryden" data-description="Dedicated to the Memory of the Late Countess of Abingdon.

As when some great and gracious monarch dies,
Soft whispers first and mournful rise
Among the sad attendants; then the sound
Soon gathers voice and spreads the news around,
Through town an..."></div>
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