UPON MY GOOD LORD THE BISHOP OF NORWICHE, RICHARD CORBET, _WHO DYED JULY
28, 1635_, AND LYES BURIED IN HIS CATHEDRAL CHURCHE.
[By Mr. JOHN TAYLOR of NORWICH: From the Cabinet, published there in
1795.]
Ye rural bardes who haunte the budding groves,
Tune your wilde reeds to sing the wood-larkes loves,
And let the softe harpe of the hawthorn vale
Melt in sweete euloge to the nightingale;
Yet haplie, Drummond, well thy muse might raise
Aires not earth-born to suit my _raven’s_ praise.
Raven he was, yet was no gloomie fowle,
Merrie at hearte, though innocente of soule;
Where’er he perkt, the birds that came anighe
Constrayned caught the humour of his eye:
Under that shade no spights and wrongs were spred,
Care came not nigh with his uncomlie head.
Somewhile the thicke embranching trees amonge,
Where Isis doth his waters leade alonge,
Kissinge with modeste lippe the holie soyle,
Reflecting backe each hallowed grove the while;
Here did my raven trie his dulcive note,
Charming old Science with his mellow throat.
Sometimes with scholiasts deep in anciente lore,
Through learnings long defyles he would explore;
Then with keene wit untie the perplext knot
Of Aristotle or the cunning Scot;
Anon loud laughter shook the arched hall,
For mirth stood redy at his potente call.
Oxforde, thou couldst not binde his outspred wing,
My raven flew where bade his princelye king;
Norwiche must honours give he did not crave,
Norwiche must lend his palace and his grave:
And that kinde hearte which gave such vertue birth
Must here be shrouded in the greedie earth.
Ofte hath thy humble lay-clerke led along,
When thou wert by, the eve or matin song;
And oftimes rounde thy marble shall he strole,
To chaunte sad requiems to thy soothed soul;—
Sleep on, till Gabriel’s trump shall break thy sleep,
And thou and I one heavenlie holiday shall keep.
Bp. Corbet’s Poems.