An Ode to Master Endymion Porter, upon His Brother's Death
Not all thy flushing suns are set,Herrick, as yet ;Nor doth this far-drawn hemisphereFrown and look sullen ev'rywhere.Days may conclude in nights, and suns may restAs dead within the west ;Yet, the next morn, regild the fragrant east.
Alas ! for me, that I have lostE'en all almost ;Sunk is my sight, set is my sun,And all the loom of life undone :The staff, the elm, the prop, the shelt'ring wallWhereon my vine did crawl,Now, now blown down ; needs must the old stock fall.
Yet, Porter, while thou keep'st alive,In death I thrive :And like a phoenix re-aspireFrom out my nard and fun'ral fire ;And as I prune my feathered youth, so IDo mar'l how I could dieWhen I had thee, my chief preserver, by.
I'm up, I'm up, and bless that handWhich makes me standNow as I do, and but for theeI must confess I could not be.The debt is paid ; for he who doth resignThanks to the gen'rous vineInvites fresh grapes to fill his press with wine.
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