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 phœnix 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.