HIS MOST ESTIMABLE TUTOR MASTER BROOK.[132]
O thou, whose name to me was still endear'd
E'en when the master's brow was justly fear'd;
I, of thy realm the most inviolate part,
By touch of thy birch-rod ne'er taught to smart,
Give thee what through long years complains of thee
That thou wast not enough a fear to me;
That I, base subject of thy sceptre slow,
Thy ferule's milder sway should only know.
Sooth, in these leaves what faults soe'er thou see,
Thy rod in every case should punish'd be.
Then let this page for me the suffering pay;
Here certainly thy rod may have full play;
Howe'er that rod to me was once too mild,
It may revenge it all on this my child;
Here will thy nail discover where to rage,
And scratch a learnèd blot across the page.
These which are bad, forsooth, these things are mine;
Would they were better, that they might be thine!
Whate'er they are, these streams their fountain know,
Nile from an unknown fount may proudly go.
Not lightly what one's source may be we deem;
Fountains give name and honour to their stream.
So small—my times perhaps may say of me—
An offspring of no fountain small was he.
Only to say of me may it be thine:
'He was my least indeed—but he was mine!' R. Wi.
IN REV. DRE. BROOKE EPITAPHIUM.[133]
Posuit sub ista, non gravi, caput terra
Ille, ipsa quem mors arrogare vix ausa
Didicit vereri, plurimumque suspenso
Dubitavit ictu, lucidos procul vultus,
Et sidus oris acre procul prospectans.
Cui literarum fama cum dedit lumen,
Accepit, atque est ditior suis donis.
Cujus serena gravitas faciles mores
Muliere novit; cujus in senectute
Famaeque riguit, et juventa fortunae.
Ita brevis aevi, ut nec videri festinus;
Ita longus, ut nec fessus. Et hunc mori credis?
TRANSLATION.
EPITAPH ON REV. DR. BROOK.
Beneath this earth, strew'd lightly, lies the head
Of one whom Death himself had learnt to dread,
Scarce venturing to claim; and falter'd much
Ere he allow'd his threatening stroke to touch
That sacred presence. These bright eyes from far
He view'd; from far that face ray'd like a star.
On whom when fame of letters lustre drew,
He took it as his right, and richer grew
By his own gifts to learning; whose serene
Severity of manners seem'd to have been
Temper'd by woman's softness; whose good name,
In later as in early years the same,
Stood firm; his fortune equal to his fame.
His life so short, that not in haste he seem'd;
So long, that weary he might not be deem'd:
That such a one is dead, can it be dream'd? R. Wi.
