Can we not force from the widowed web,
Now thou art dead, great 3.0, one elegy
To crown thy hearse? Why yet did we not trust,
Though with unkneaded dough-baked prose, thy dust,
Such as the unscissored webmaster from the flower
Of fading content, short-lived as his hour,
Dry as the log that measures it, might lay
Upon the ashes, on the funeral day?
Have we nor elegance nor FIG? Didst though dispense
Through all our language both the content and sense?
'Tis a sad truth. The pulpit may her plain
And sober Purist precepts still retain;
Doctrines they may, and wholesome BANNERs, un-FRAME;
Grave accents and ©, but the flame
Of thy brave grammar, that shot such heat and light
As burnt our SSIs and made our USEMAPs bright,
Committed holy rapes upon the will,
Did through the eye the melting heart distill,
And the deep knowledge of dark truths so teach
As sense might judge where fancy could not reach,
Must be desired forever. So the fire
That fills with spirit and abstracts the spider's lair,
Which, weighted first by thy META-KEYWORD's breath,
Glowed here a while, lies quenched now in thy death.
The grammatist's garden, with KEWList weeds
O'erspread, was purged by thee; the lazy seeds
Of servile browserisms thrown away,
And fresh invention planted; thou didst pay
The debts of our penurious bankrupt age;
Licentious thefts, that make bots rage
In agonized fury, when our pages must be
gleaned with Netscape's unknown DTD
Or MSIE's, not their own; the subtle cheat
Of sly exhanges, and the juggling feat
Of two-edged tags, or whatsoever wrong
By ours was done the editor's or printer's tounge,
Thou hast redeeemed, and opened us a mine
Of rich and pregnant markup; drawn an outline
Of universal expression, which had good
Old multimedia seen, or all the teeming brood
Our superstitious fools admire and hold
their ephemeral lead more precious than thy burnished gold,
Thou hast been their exchequer, and no more
They in each other's core-dumps had searched for ore.
Thou shalt yield no precedence, but of time
And the blind fate of language, whose tuned chime
More charms the outward sense; yet thou mayst claim
From so great disadvantage greater fame,
Since to the awe of thy imperious wit
Our troublesome protocols bends, made only fit
With her tough thick-ribbed structure to gird about
our giant texts, which had proved too stout
For their soft melting BLINKs. As with hacks
They were replete, so did they make the stash
Of hidden cookies many a hundred days,
And left the rifled servers, besides the fear
To touch their content; yet from those bare lands
Of what was only thine, thy only hands,
And that their smallest work, have gleanèd more
Than all those times and tounges could reap before.
But thou art gone, and thy strict laws will be
Too hard for libertines in consultancy;
They will repeal the goodly exiled train
Of CENTERs and FONTs, which in thy just reign
Was banished. Nobler pages, now with these
The silent tales in thy DTD
Shall mark their lines, and swell their T1s.
But Wilbur shall run wild and free,
Till markup, refined by thee in this last age,
Turn to incomprehensible code, and those idols
PageMills, HoTMetaLs and their bastard brood,
Be adored again with new apostasy.
Oh, pardon me, that break with untuned verse
The reverend silence that attends thy hearse,
Whose solemn awful murmurs were to thee,
More than these rude lines, a loud elegy,
That did proclaim in a dumb eloquence
The death of all the arts; whose influence,
Grown feeble, in these panting numbers lies,
Gasping short-winded accents, and so dies.
So doth the swiftly turning wheel not stand
In the instant we withdraw the moving hand,
But some time retain a faint weak course,
By virtue of the first impulsive force;
And so, whilst I cast on thy funeral pile
The crown of bays, oh, let it crack awhile,
And spit disdain, till the devouring flashes
Suck all the moisture up, then turn to ashes.
I will not draw thee envy to engross
All thy perfections, or weep all the loss;
Those are too numerous for one elegy,
And this too great to be expressed by me.
Though every pen should share a distinct part,
Yet art thou theme enough to tire all art;
Let others carve the rest; it shall suffice
I on thy grave this epitaph incise:
Here lies a DTD that structured with elegant wit,
The universal library of bits;
Here lies the HEAD, and BODY both the best,
HTML's finest, at last the true Web's priest.
This elegy is an adaption of Thomas Carew’s finest poem “AN elegy upon the Death of the Dean of Paul’s, Dr. John Donne” I have no gift for poetry and could only hope to give my anguish the words of another. Carew’s poem follows.
An Elegy upon the Death of the Dean of Paul’s, Dr. John Donne
Can we not force from widowed poetry,
Now thou art dead, great Donne, one elegy
To crown thy hearse? Why yet did we not trust,
Though with unkneaded dough-baked prose, thy dust,
Such as the unscissored lecturer from the flower
Of fading rhetoric, short-lived as his hour,
Dry as the sand that measures it, might lay
Upon the ashes, on the funeral day?
Have we nor tune nor voice? Didst though dispense
Through all our language both the words and sense?
'Tis a sad truth. The pulpit may her plain
And sober Christian precepts still retain;
Doctrines it may, and wholesome uses, frame;
Grave homilies and lectures, but the flame
Of thy brave soul, that shot such heat and light
As burnt our Earth and made our darkness bright,
Committed holy rapes upon the will,
Did through the eye the melting heart distill,
And the deep knowledge of dark truths so teach
As sense might judge where fancy could not reach,
Must be desired forever. So the fire
That fills with spirit and heat the Delphic choir,
Which, kindled first by thy Promethean breath,
Glowed here a while, lies quenched now in thy death.
The Muses' garden, with pedantic weeds
O'erspread, was purged by thee; the lazy seeds
Of servile imitation thrown away,
And fresh invention planted; thou didst pay
The debts of our penurious bankrupt age;
Licentious thefts, that make poetic rage
A mimic fury, when our souls must be
Possessed, or with Anacreon's ecstasy
Or Pindar's, not their own; the subtle cheat
Of sly exhanges, and the juggling feat
Of two-edged words, or whatsoever wrong
By ours was done the Greek or Latin tounge,
Thou hast redeeemed, and opened us a mine
Of rich and pregnant fancy; drawn a line
Of masculine expression, which had good
Old Orpheus seen, or all the ancient brood
Our superstitious fools admire and hold
their lead more precious than thy burnished gold,
Thou hast been their exchequer, and no more
They in each other's dung had searched for ore.
Thou shalt yield no precedence, but of time
And the blind fate of language, whose tuned chime
More charms the outward sense; yet thou mayst claim
From so great disadvantage greater fame,
Since to the awe of thy imperious wit
Our troublesome language bends, made only fit
With her tough thick-ribbed hopes to gird about
Thy giant fancy, which had proved too stout
For their soft melting phrases. As in time
They had the start, so did they cull the prime
Buds of invention many a hundred year,
And left the rifled fields, besides the fear
To touch their harvest; yet from those bare lands
Of what was only thine, thy only hands,
And that their smallest work, have gleanèd more
Than all those times and tounges could reap before.
But thou art gone, and thy strict laws will be
Too hard for libertines in poetry;
They will repeal the goodly exiled train
Of gods and godesses, which in thy just reign
Was banished nobler poems; now with these,
The silent tales i' th' Metamorphoses
Shall stuff their lines, and swell the windy page,
Till verse, refined by thee in this last age,
Turn ballad-rhyme, or those idols be
Adored again with new apostasy.
Oh, pardon me, that break with untuned verse
The reverend silence that attends thy hearse,
Whose solemn awful murmurs were to thee,
More than these rude lines, a loud elegy,
That did proclaim in a dumb eloquence
The death of all the arts; whose influence,
Grown feeble, in these panting numbers lies,
Gasping short-winded accents, and so dies.
So doth the swiftly turning wheel not stand
In the instant we withdraw the moving hand,
But some time retain a faint weak course,
By virtue of the first impulsive force;
And so, whilst I cast on thy funeral pile
The crown of bays, oh, let it crack awhile,
And spit disdain, till the devouring flashes
Suck all the moisture up, then turn to ashes.
I will not draw thee envy to engross
All thy perfections, or weep all the loss;
Those are too numerous for one elegy,
And this too great to be expressed by me.
Though every pen should share a distinct part,
Yet art thou theme enough to tire all art;
Let others carve the rest; it shall suffice
I on thy grave this epitaph incise:
Here lies a king that ruled as he thought fit
The universal monarchy of wit;
Here lies two flamens, and both those the best,
Apollo's first, at last the true God's priest.
Thomas Carew
1633 C.E.