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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=530165" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>On Ye Bishop Of Meaths Death</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">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.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Thomas+Parnell">Thomas Parnell</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=530165" data-title="On Ye Bishop Of Meaths Death de Thomas Parnell" data-description="Mourn widdowd Iland, Mourn, your Pan is dead.
Mourn ye unhappy flocks your Sheapherd Pan is fled;
Around your grief in dolefull straines convey,
& Lett ym in sad Eccho's dy away,
As sympathising wth their masters care, 
As if they felt th' unlucky..."></div>
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