AN
ELEGIE
Upon the much lamented Death of that Noble, and Valiant
Commander; the Right honourable the Earl of
TIVEOT,
Governour of Tangiers. Slain by the Moors.
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CAn TIVEOT, Britains glorious victime, dye,
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And no Vein bleed with a kind symphathie?
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Shall one presumptious * Ballad-scratching Pen
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Fame the worst Bard, to shame the best of men?
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Let indignation once a Muse create;
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A rage, may mourn, if not revenge his fate:
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Whose active soul has not deserv'd to have
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A double silence of his Name, and Grave.
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* An Elegie
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with Pictures.
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Did the stupendious news, like lightning, blast
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Our Wits, from Trances to break forth at last?
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Never did Eccho strike so many dumb
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Since that, first howl'd out the Kings Martyrdome!
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Thou Africk Monster, whose unbridled shame
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In scorn has borrowed our grand * Rebell's Name;
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Just heaven thy sanguine humour satiate;
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O mayst thou with his Name adopt his Fate:
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How canst thou offer, (knowing where he lies)
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To his Triangular shrine a sacrifice?
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The bloud, flesh, bones, sow'd in that dismal place
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In time, shall bring forth a Cadmean race
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Of English Gyants, whose high gallantrie
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Gayland shall combat, not the gods, but thee.
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'Tis not thy Spirit, but thy Spite, w' abhorre:
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Villain, thou dost not fight, but massacre.
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* Gay-
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land calls
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himself
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Cromwel.
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Ye cruel Serpents, whose low cowardise
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Lurks in the woods and grass, but dares not hiss
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'Gainst a just foe; save when your Treachery can
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Oppose a thousand to each single man!
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So Butchers conquer feeble lambs, and thus
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Our Cromwel play'd the Cannibal with us.
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No Dodonaean grove? no Vocal tree
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T' Alarme this miscreant, lawless enemie?
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Hence-forth may every Tree, on hills or plains,
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Make gallowses for Rebel-Africans:
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May Lyons, Panthers, and all natures Evils
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Joyn in Battalio to destry these Devils.
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The Combat would appear more equal, when
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Beasts fight with beasts, not beasts with civil men.
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No blade of grass grow near that fatal Wood,
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'Till it be dung'd with Mauritanian blood.
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But let that sap, fell from the British oaks
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Assist next fight with sympathetick stroaks;
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Or rise in fiery Meteors, to annoy
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These Lyons whelps, both beast and den destroy.
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Vain Execrations, now brave Tiveots lost!
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Not to be ransom'd by all Nature's cost:
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But Tiveot shall act still, his injur'd Ghost
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Shall Van and rear, and flank proud Gaylands Host:
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His spirits, (though their soul be lodg'd in bliss)
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Shall, by a happy Metempsychosis,
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Transfuse themselves into each Souldier's breast,
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And 'gainst the Moors in every heart contest.
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Tangiers her Confines shall extend, as far
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As Gayland dares appear, in peace, or war.
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If any Region ly without the world,
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(As some dispute) he shall be thither hurld.
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The Royal Mold, yet under-deck, shall rise
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Now Tiveots Monument, once his Enterprize.
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Loud Cannon from the Forts shall issue shot
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Doubly inspir'd with flames, and Tiveot.
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Dunkirk his nearer glory shall advance,
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Whose strength drew out the very bloud of France.
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[By him confirm'd against her proudest force;
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Was only equal to her conquering purse.]
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Let's not the loss of that, but Tiveot weep;
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Princes know best, both what to gain, and keep;
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Dunkirk was a fair bride, but apt to jar;
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Better divorce her, then espouse a War:
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But whether she belong to France, or Spain,
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Or by new Policie return again;
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Tiveot thy Name shall there in garrison rest,
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Though not her Governour, yet her glorious guest.
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No Satyrs more the Scottish borders tread,
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Nor make a wanton Helicon of Tweed:
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No Bard, inveigh against that Northern clime,
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Unless you bring Clevelands wit, with his rhyme.
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That very guilt the Royal partie scourg'd,
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Was after by the bloud of Royalists purg'd.
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If there remains yet any national spot,
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'Tis now wip'd off by Scotlands Tiveot.
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Why should that soil, gave us a Race of Kings,
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Be scorn'd by fools, as barren of good things.
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England, and Scotland, both to Tangiers flie,
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Let not your Tiveot unrevenged die;
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Love whet your anger, and this whet your swords;
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While both are quickned by persuasive words:
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First take up Tiveots spirit, then his bones;
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They'll prove as fruitfull as Deucalions stones.
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Now fight, now plant, and conquerours remain,
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'Till Africa be Christian once again:
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That quadrant-Region never will be good,
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'Till manur'd with this Renegado's bloud.
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No wonder Gayland-Cromwel do's survive,
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Fate will not let a Cromwel hang alive.
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