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 hemisphere

Frown and look sullen ev'rywhere.

Days may conclude in nights, and suns may rest

As dead within the west ;

Yet, the next morn, regild the fragrant east.

Alas ! for me, that I have lost

E'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 wall

Whereon 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-aspire

From out my nard and fun'ral fire ;

And as I prune my feathered youth, so I

Do mar'l how I could die

When I had thee, my chief preserver, by.

I'm up, I'm up, and bless that hand

Which makes me stand

Now as I do, and but for thee

I must confess I could not be.

The debt is paid ; for he who doth resign

Thanks to the gen'rous vine

Invites fresh grapes to fill his press with wine.