AN ELEGY,
[SACRED]
To the Immortall MEMORY of that most Renowned, Religious, Prudent, and Victorious
Commander,
HENRY IRETON,
Late Lord Deputy of IRELAND, etc.
|
THere let the Thunder rowle then! And the Ayre
|
In startling summons to the World, declare
|
Heavn's righteous wrath! And be the growing Fate
|
Of Grief more great, 'cause inarticulate!
|
'Twas not unknown, his early thoughts did take
|
So much of glory, that he kept awake
|
Honour and Justice, and revived Fame
|
Bed-rid, and speechless but for IRETONS Name;
|
'Twas He, whose courage warm'd her, when he stood
|
The English Shield, and through a crimson Flood
|
To Freedom march'd; when Death was onely seen
|
In showrs of Bullets to come storming in,
|
Untaught to cease, till Victory did rest
|
Her weary wings upon his plumed Crest,
|
The strength and safety to this State he brought,
|
The many Townes he won, the Fields he fought
|
Shall best express him, and sound alwayes forth
|
The Height and Heat of his unequall'd Worth,
|
And, making good his Tears with salter Brine,
|
The fiercer Shanon with the Thames shall joyne:
|
Ireland by wary Mariners eschew'd
|
As Saints do Altars drench'd in humane bloud,
|
By Him finds new Observance, and His Hand
|
Began the way, to expiate that Land;
|
So sure were all the Counsailes which he gave,
|
As none but IRETON could sad IRELAND save,
|
And yet the Land so wild, the Ayre so ill,
|
That nought but IRELAND could our IRETON kill.
|
What Art can reach his Verue, to set down
|
With how much Courage he put off the Gown
|
To unsheath his sword, when, like a Lion, Hee
|
Fought to restore the English LIBERTIE?
|
And still though active, yet no hasty Fate
|
Could tax his Sword as undeliberate;
|
For so discreet a Valour did command
|
His Warres, that, He being present, Fate might stand,
|
Or pass unknown, and we almost might be
|
Secure, to say, That Providence was He;
|
But Truth and safe Divinitie hath taught
|
To give a check to this profaner thought;
|
For GOD was alwayes with him, He aright,
|
Did guide his Heart, and taught his Hands to fight,
|
So that in all his Warres there did appeare
|
No sight of wrong, nor any sense of Feare;
|
But in a perfect harmony 'twas showne,
|
The Saint and Souldier could be both in one;
|
And his brave Army did so strictly live,
|
After the great Examples he did give,
|
That forreign Nations might with wonder see
|
How well Religion did with Armes agree;
|
And now those Warres expiring, and the high
|
And joyfull sound of Union drawing nigh,
|
After he Truth and Freedom did restore
|
To Earth, He, finding he could do no more,
|
To Heav'n ascended: where He first is seen
|
Next to his God, an armed Cherubin.
|
WHy weep you here? and take this Stone to be
|
In vain the Prison of Eternitie?
|
Let your translated Pietie and Love,
|
Look high and joyfull on the roomes above,
|
In those great IRETON lives, the Heav'ns enshrine,
|
And court his glorious soul, which now doth shine
|
More bright by Death: Yet weep! for yet this Tombe
|
Holds Natures chiefest Treasurer: would you come,
|
And all Perfections in one Volume see,
|
Here every Dust would make a Historie,
|
Which he that looks on, and not spares a groan,
|
Adds but more marble to His Buriall-Stone.
|
|
|
|
|
|