An ELEGY
On the Right Honourable
Anthony Earl of Shaftsbury,
Who dyed on the 21st. of January, 1683.
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THe Busie Statesmen who by Toyls unblest,
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Torment themselves to give their Country Rest,
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Those publick Great First movers of the State,
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Who almost turn the Mighty Wheels of Fate,
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Roul the vast Stone like Sysyphus in vain;
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Whilst Deaths last Call ends a whole Ages Pain.
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The Graves long Rubicon must all pass o're,
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Whence launching Caesars can return no more.
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Farewell, Great Shaftsbury! Times Sythe can stretch
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Where Malice, Sword, and Axes ne'er could reach.
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Thy Life, great Statesman, stood in Fate so high,
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That thou by nought but Heav'ns own Hand couldst die.
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Yes, Heaven alone compiles thy Funeral-Urn:
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Less than the Sun the Phoenix shall not burn.
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What did wise Solon, or Lycurgus do?
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Lycurgus dy'd, like Thee, an Exile too.
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And whilst proud Belgia thy Bones Entombs,
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And triumps at the Glory it assumes,
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Belgia, who in thy Fate has now done more
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Than all her Trumps or Opdams could before.
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Belgia has vanquisht more in thy one Grave,
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Than all the Wounds her Thunder ever gave.
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Sleep then thou Activ'st of Mankind: Oh make
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Thy last low Bed, and Deaths long Requiem take;
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Thou who whilst living kept'st the World awake.
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Oh may thy Funeral-Rites walk that large round,
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Till to thy Western-shore thy loss resound;
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Till Carolina shall in Mourning stand,
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With all the Cypress of a Widow'd Land.
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Let Fools and Knaves through their false Opticks find
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Thy Spots, and be to all thy Brightness blind.
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Let Envy all her monstrous Forms suggest,
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And lodge the Raven in the Eagles Nest.
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Let 'em rail on, and vent their hurtless Gall,
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Whilst Shaftsburys Renown surmounts 'em all.
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From his clear Fame the dissolv'd Clouds shall throw,
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And leave the Earthly Vapours all below.
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Yes, Mighty Man, lay thy great Reliques down,
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Thou Idol of the Croud, Dread of the Crown;
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Shaftsbury in popular Arts and Harts so learn'd
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As with his Weight the Scale of Nations turn'd:
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To him the Kingdoms Genius bended low;
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The Thrones best Friend, or formidablest Foe.
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If the best Gifts which the kind Stars dispense,
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The highest Prodigies of Wit and Sense,
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For Immortality Foundations lay;
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No Greater Soul e're lodg'd in Walls of Clay.
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Swiftly his restless Orb of Fire went round,
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And light and warmth we from his Influence found.
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His kindest Rays and temperater Heat
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The Protestants still-favour'd Climates met:
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There his best Aspect smil'd; whilst Rome alone
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Felt all the Fury of his Torrid Zone.
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This was the Cause did such great Foes engage
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With such keen Malice, and such Mortal Rage.
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For this so high the Roman Vengance boyls
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With Fires more hot that their old Smithfield-piles.
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But Heavens kind Call has all their Engines crost,
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Heav'n that has lodg'd thee on that safer Coast,
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Whence thou look'st down and seest thy Mighty Hunters lost.
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EPITAPH.
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UNder this Stone does Sleeping lye
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All that was Earth of Shaftsbury.
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But Funeral-Tears and Weeping Eyes
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Infallibillity denies.
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Whilst his wish'd Death's enough to be
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The Subject of a Jubilee.
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A more sworn Foe to Roman Pride
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Not Hannibal himself e're dy'd.
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For which his Deathless Fame below,
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His Soul above --- His Soul --- Ah, no!
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From Heav'n's lock'd out too sure, if they
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Who succeed Peter keep the Key.
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Doom'd to Hells hottest burning Seat,
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If the Popes Curse can do the Feat.
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If Papal Rage and Roman Spight
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For any but themselves Hell-fire can light.
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