AN
ELEGIE UPON THE
DEATH OF THE MIRROUR
Of Magnanimity, the right Honourable Robert Lord Brooke;
Lord Generall of the Forces of the Counties of Warwick, and Stafford, who was slain by
A Musket shot at the siege of Liechfield, the second day of March, 1642.
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BAck blushing morne, to thine Eternall bed,
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Ruffle for ever the tresses of thine head
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In some thick Cloud, and thou whose raies do burn
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The Center of the Universe, returne:
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For if thy head beyond its Porch appeares,
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Thyselfe, thy self must needs melt into teares.
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Bright Saint thy pardon, if my dolefull Verse
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Do seem in sighing ore thy glorious Hearse
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To envy death; for fame itselfe now weares
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Griefes Livery, and only speakes in teares.
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Brave Brooke is dead, like Lightning, which no part
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Oth body touches, but first strikes the heart,
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This word hath murdred all; it can a shower
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Enforce from every eye, it hath a power
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To alter natures course, how else should all
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Run wilde with mourning, and distracted fall.
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Ist not a grosse unttuth to say, thy breath
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Expird too soon? or that impartiall Death
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Thy Corps too soon surprizd? No, if thy yeares
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Be numbred by thy Vertues, or our teares,
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Thou didst the old Methusalem outlive;
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Though Time not forty yeares account can give
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Of thine abode on earth, yet every hower
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Of thine unpatternd life, by Vertues power
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A yeare in length surpast, each well-spent day,
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The body maketh young, the soule makes gray.
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Ah cruell Death! who with one cursed Ball,
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Didst make the Atlas of our State to fall,
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In one thou all hast slaine, whose death alone,
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A death will be unto a Million.
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Could none but his sweet Nectard blood appease
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The fire-sprung Bullets heat? Must it needs seaze
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His sacred face, it selfe there to enshrine,
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Not in an earthly, but a Tombe divine.
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See lucklesse Liechfield that thou do not hide
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The precious blood, which from the wound did slide
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At this Lords death, it may not Cloisterd be
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In thy fraile earth, alwayes impuritie
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It did abhor, therefore in Sacrifice,
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Send it unto its head above the skies,
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And for an Altar whereon it to lay,
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A thousand thousand soules through griefe this day
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Themselves to death have wept, whom thou maist take,
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And them conjoyne thine Altar for to make.
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But lift not up thine head, least that the skies
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In weeping showres of blood put out thine eyes.
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And is this blessed Brooke (whose Cristall streames
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Sweld with such store of Grace, whose blissefull beames
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Enlightned all) is it so soone drawne drie,
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Leaving its ancient current, to fill each eye
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With mournefull teares, surely in Paradise
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Itselfe it now dischannels, where no vice
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Or shade of it appeares, a place most pure,
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Where all such Saints forever must endure.
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I might relate thine actions here on earth,
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Thy mysterie of life, thy noblest birth,
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Outshind by nobler vertue, but how farre
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Th hast tane thy journey bove the highest starre
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I cannot speake, nor whether thou art in
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Commission with a Throne, or Cherubin.
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I might unto the world, great Lord repeate,
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Thine owne brave story, and tell it how great
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Thou wert in thy minds Empire, and how all
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Who out live thee, see but the Funerall
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Of glory: and if yet some vertuous be,
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They but weake apparitions are of thee.
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Thine actions were most just, thy words mature,
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And every scean of life from sin so pure,
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That scarce in its whole history we can
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Finde Vice enough to say thou wert but man.
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Tis past all mortals power, then much more mine,
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To tell what vertues dwelt within this shrine,
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Yet if illiterate persons walk this way,
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And ask what jewell glorifies this clay,
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Say, good Brookes ashes this Tombe hath in keeping,
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Then lead them forth, lest they grow blind with weeping.
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Tell but his name, no more, that shall suffice,
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To draw downe floods of teares from dryest eyes,
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Our griefes are infinite, therefore my Muse,
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Cast Anchor here, mine eyes cannot effuse
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Any more teares, this for thy comfort know,
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Fate cannot give us such another blow.
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