AN
ELEGY
ON THE
Death of the most Illustrious LORD,
THE
EARL of St. ALBANS:
Who Departed this Life the first Day of this Instant January, 1684.
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GO stop the swift-wingd Moments in their flight,
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Arrest the Envious Course of Day and Night;
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Alas! it will not be, we strive in vain,
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Not all our Art can one poor Hour regain:
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TIME flyes in haste to meet Eternity,
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As Rivers to the Bosome of the Sea,
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There to be lost; nor can we bribe the stay
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Of the least Minute, to prolong the Day,
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Which is by Fate ordaind to be our last,
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Without reverse, when once the Doom is past.
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For if there coud have been the least Reprieve
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To Mortal Breath, thou hadst been still alive;
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St. ALBANS still, had blest our wondring Eyes,
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Who now the Tyrant Deaths pale Captive lies.
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Let us contemplate thee (brave Soul) and tho
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We cannot track the way which thou didst go
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In thy Celestial Journey, and our Heart
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Expansion want, to think what now thou art,
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How bright and wide thy Glories, yet we may
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Remember thee as thou wert in thy Clay;
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Great without Title, in thyself alone,
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A mighty Lord, thou stoodst obliegd to none
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But Heaven and thyself, for that great worth
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Which the propitious Stars that ruld thy Birth
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Inspird into thy Noble Soul, and Thou
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Not wanting to thyself, didst make it grow
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To such prodigious height, thou wast become
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So truly Glorious, that struck Envy Dumb.
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All Differences did in thy praise conspire,
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And evn thy Foes, if such coud be, admire
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Thy Noble Life, which like the constant Sun
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Did in the same Ecliptic always run
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Ever most loyal to the Royal Cause,
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Which from the Heaven of Heavens its Title draws;
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Where now thou livst, freed from th uncertain sport
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Of Time and Fortune, in the Starry Court,
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A Glorious Potentate; while we below,
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But fashion woes to mittigate our woe.
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And now my sorrows follow thee, I tread
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The Milky way, and see the Snowy Head
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Of Atlas far below, while all the high.
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Swoln Buildings seem but Attoms to my eye;
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How small seems greatness here? how! not a span
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His Empire who commands the Ocean,
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Both that which boasts so much its mighty Ore,
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And th other wh[i]ch with Pearl hath pavd its shore.
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Nor can it greater seem, when this great All,
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For which Men quarrel so, is but a Ball
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Cast down into the ayr, to sport the Star;
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And all our general Ruines, mortal wars,
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Depopulated States, causd by their sway,
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And Mans so reverend wisdom but their play.
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By thee St. Albans living, we did learn
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The art of life, and by thy light discern
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The truth which Men dispute; but by thee Dead,
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Wer taught upon the worlds gay pride to tread,
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And that way sooner Master it, than he
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To whom both Indies tributary be:
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Thus shall we gain by Death, while we Deplore
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His Fate, remembring how great and good
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St. Albans was, and yet but flesh and blood
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As we; how should the brave example move
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On kindled Souls, and lift us up above
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Low-thoughted Care of dull Mortality,
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Since, if as Good, we shall be Great as He.
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The EPITAPH.
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HAil! Sacred House, in which his Reliques Sleep,
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Blest Marble, give me leave t approach and Weep:
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Unto thy Self, great Spirit, I will Repeat
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Thy Own brave STORY: tell thy Self how Great
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Thou wert in Minds Empire, and how all
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Who Out-Live Thee, see but the FUNERAL
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Of Glory; and if yet some Vertuous be,
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They but the Apparitions are of Thee.
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