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William Cowper - Elegy III. Anno Aet. 17. On The Death Of The Bishop Of Winchester (Translated From Milton)
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Silent I sat, dejected, and alone,
Making in thought the public woes my own,
When, first, arose the image in my breast
Of England`s sufferings by that scourge, the pest.
How death, his fun`ral torch and scythe in hand,
Ent`ring the lordliest mansions of the land,
Has laid the gem-illumin`d palace low,
And level`d tribes of Nobles at a blow.
I, next, deplor`d the famed fraternal pair
Too soon to ashes turn`d and empty air, 
The Heroes next, whom snatch`d into the skies
All Belgia saw, and follow`d with her sighs;
But Thee far most I mourn`d, regretted most,
Winton`s chief shepherd and her worthiest boast;
Pour`d out in tears I thus complaining said--
Death, next in pow`r to Him who rules the Dead!
Is`t not enough that all the woodlands yield
To thy fell force, and ev`ry verdant field,
That lilies, at one noisome blast of thine,
And ev`n the Cyprian Queen`s own roses, pine,
That oaks themselves, although the running rill
Suckle their roots, must wither at thy will,
That all the winged nations, even those
Whose heav`n-directed flight the Future shows,
And all the beasts that in dark forests stray,
And all the herds of Proteus are thy prey?
Ah envious! arm`d with pow`rs so unconfined
Why stain thy hands with blood of Human kind?
Why take delight, with darts that never roam,
To chase a heav`n-born spirit from her home? 
   While thus I mourn`d, the star of evening stood,
Now newly ris`n, above the western flood,
And Phoebus from his morning-goal again
Had reach`d the gulphs of the Iberian main.
I wish`d repose, and, on my couch reclined
Took early rest, to night and sleep resign`d,
When--Oh for words to paint what I beheld!
I seem`d to wander in a spacious field,
Where all the champain glow`d with purple light
Like that of sun-rise on the mountain height; 
Flow`rs over all the field, of ev`ry hue
That ever Iris wore, luxuriant grew,
Nor Chloris, with whom amtrous Zephyrs play,
E`er dress`d Alcinous` gardens half so gay.
A silver current, like the Tagus, roll`d
O`er golden sands, but sands of purer gold,
With dewy airs Favonius fann`d the flow`rs,
With airs awaken`d under rosy bow`rs.
Such poets feign, irradiated all o`er
The sun`s abode on India`s utmost shore.
   While I, that splendour and the mingled shade
Of fruitful vines, with wonder fixt survey`d,
At once, with looks that beam`d celestial grace,
The Seer of Winton stood before my face.
His snowy vesture`s hem descending low
His golden sandals swept, and pure as snow
New-fallen shone the mitre on his brow.
Where`er he trod, a tremulous sweet sound
Of gladness shook the flow`ry scene around:
Attendant angels clap their starry wings, 
The trumpet shakes the sky, all aether rings,
Each chaunts his welcome, folds him to his breast,
And thus a sweeter voice than all the rest.
"Ascend, my son! thy Father`s kingdom share,
My son! henceforth be free`d from ev`ry care."
   So spake the voice, and at its tender close
With psaltry`s sound th`Angelic band arose.
Then night retired, and chased by dawning day
The visionary bliss pass`d all away.
I mourn`d my banish`d sleep with fond concern,
Frequent, to me may dreams like this return.
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