AN ELIGIE
UPON THE
Universally-lamented Death of the thrice Noble and Vertuous
Prince, Henry Duke of Gloucester.
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ANd is his breath expird? hath His Chaste Soul
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Shakd off her clayie fetters? Ah, condole,
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Mourn and lament your Fate Distressed Isles
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Of Britains growing Empire, hence all smiles
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Adieu. Up, said Melpomenie, Ah, rouse
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Thy thirsty soul, and in thy tears carouse
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Thy fill; come, banquet on the Sable Verse,
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My Muse shall sacrifice unto His Herse:
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Turn from all other Objects, for heres One
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Presents thee with an Inundation
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Of lasting Grief. But whats my private woe,
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When all the Nations Tears do overflow.
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Yet stay,forbear a while, lets not believe
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He thus could dye, and yet the Heavens not grieve
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At th worlds Great Loss! what? do impetuous showers
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Of tears from thWeeping Clouds (preventing ours)
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Distil; Or doth the Days Bright Lamp streight burn
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Dull as a Torch to light us to His Urn?
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Is the dismantled Skies Bright Azure-Back,
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Streight over-clad in Sad and Mournful Black?
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No, see Olymphus face serene and clear,
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Free from the signal of one Chrystal tear;
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Phoebus ins wonted lustre shines, the Skies
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Are not adorned for His Obsequies;
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Sure then He still survives, and his soft breaths,
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But whispering Mercy in the ears of Death:
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View but His cheeks, where though the Roses are
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Seeming tretreat, the Lillies spring more fair
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Then ere they did: Thoughs eyes they do not keep
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Their Rays in ure, they are but closd in sleep:
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The former lustre of his Ruby Lips,
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(Which now seem Snow) feel but a short Eclipse:
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By want of Sanguine heat, life doth impart,
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And send at present to His drooping heart
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His dormant pulses (which erewhile exprest
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His health) are laid but sweetly down to rest:
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Cease then to think Him Dead, wait but a while,
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And gently hell awake, see, see Him smile.
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But ah, our expectations are deceivd,
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And those so sweet Ideas we conceivd
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Would turn to Substance, are but Shadows fled
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Away on Airy Wings, for loe Hes DEAD:
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Hes dead, and coffind up, fit to receive
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The cold embracing of His ROYAL GRAVE.
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False Phansie, why hast mockt us? why betrayd
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Our lingring Hopes thus into Lyes? and staid
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The current of our Tears so long? Ah, why
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Wouldst thou perswade us that He could not dye,
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Unless the troubled Heavens had mournd and wept
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To see Him dead, whilst thou feignd He but slept;
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When oft we see the best of Nature falls,
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Unmourned for by Supernaturals.
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Hes gone: Ope wide the floodgates of your eyes,
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That streams may pass. When common beauty lies
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Interrd in dust, when death hath cropt the Rose
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Of Youth scarce blown, what flinty hearts are those
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Vent not a tear? But now that Death takes hence
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The Lovelyst of the Land, our YOUNGEST PRINCE,
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Shall we be parsimonious of our store?
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No, well even weep, till we can shed no more.
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Now if I could, Id mount the Radiant Seat
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Of Sacred Angels, humbly to entreat
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A Quill pluckt from their Wings, and crave a Fount
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Of Highest Eloquence, and then recount
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The Grandeur of His VERTUES; for below,
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No Pen, no Strains are found that can them show.
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To say He was a PRINCE of Noblest Blood,
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Great by His Birth, yet not so Great as Good:
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To say He was so Learnd, eres age could reach,
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A score of years, He could His Tutors teach:
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To say He was a PRINCE whose Life was spent
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In Grief and Cares, yet never discontent:
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To say He was but Young when ravishd hence,
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Yet Old in WISDOM and EXPERIENCE:
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To say (what shall I say?) He was become,
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The PRINCELY DARLING of all Christendom,
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Were but (by these unworthy lines) to tell
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A Truth the World already knows so well.
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Go ask the Church of Rome, she (sighing) saith,
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Ah, all my Batteries could not shake His Faith.
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Go ask the nimble French, what was His Wit,
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Theyll quickly tell you they admired it.
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Go ask the serious Spaniard, theyll aver,
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He was a PRINCE did need no Counsellour.
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Go ask the German Princes, ask the Dutch,
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The Nations round, theyll say they found as much:
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We onely (soon unhappy made) alas,
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Have scarce experimented what He was.
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Now what is Man, O whats the Noblest Man?
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The Slave of Death (whose Life is but a Span,)
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A weary Passenger, still on his way,
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Here much esteemd, a Nothing in a day.
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What is this Life? but even expected Death,
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A Stage of Mockeries, a little breath
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Reserved in a Bladder, prickt tis lost;
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A doleful Warfare, and to all (not most)
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A Sea of Miseries, a Vial filld
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With blood, which being quickly broke, tis spilld.
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How infinitely happy then is His
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Bright Soul, releasd from such a Life as this:
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There blessed Spirit rest, rest in that Peace,
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And these Celestial Joys shall never cease:
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GLOUSTERS Great Name on Earth ner can binvolvd
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In Laethes Streams, until the Worlds dissolvd.
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