A Second
ELEGY
On that Incomparable HEROE,
THOMAS Earl of OSSORY:
Who died on Fryday the 30th of July 1680.
|
HE's dead 'tis true---I question it no more;
|
Nay rather fear'd than doubted it before:
|
But Grief for OSSORY is ne'r too late,
|
Since future Ages will bewail his Fate.
|
Even this late Sorrow, which my Muse puts on,
|
Had been less true, had it appear'd more soon;
|
For nimble sorrow quickly change their show,
|
The long-liv'd Grief is in its Birth most slow.
|
When first I heard Great OSSORY'S dismal Knel,
|
A stupid horror straight upon me fell,
|
Wrapt all my Senses in Astonishment,
|
Nor did so much as leave for Tears a Vent.
|
Like Niobe, I seem'd to be in one,
|
Both Mourner then and Monumental Stone.
|
Nor certainly, had I that Swoon surviv'd;
|
But must have dy'd, had not my sorrows liv'd.
|
Yet 'twas no weakness: Charles himself, we hear,
|
Withdrew, and shed for Ossory a tear.
|
What Heart more great? Yet ev'n that could not hold,
|
When to his Eares so sad a Theam was told.
|
Were any Heart in all his Kingdoms found,
|
Which the sad News with sorrow did not wound?
|
A Traitors Death he justly might receive,
|
That with his King and Country would not grieve.
|
When on the Sickly Bed Great OSSORY lay,
|
And Fear had not quite took all hope away;
|
How eagerly the pious people strove,
|
To shew a fear, which shew'd so much of Love,
|
Liv's he said they --- when, yes, the Doctor se'd,
|
How many Blessings showr'd they on his Head.
|
He lives --- the Eccho o'r all England flew;
|
Ev'n fierce Moroccos King did fear 'twas true.
|
As on cold Oetas Top, the Son of Jove!
|
With double Heat of Fire and Poyson strove;
|
And all the World stood trembling for his sake:
|
Only Eurystheus hop'd the rest would take:
|
Such pains our Hero did that time endure,
|
Tormented with a direful Calenture.
|
While three great Nations trembled for his Head;
|
Only the barbarous Moor could wish him dead.
|
Thy loss brave OSSORY, Tangiere deplores,
|
Worse at thy Death dismaid, than at the Moors.
|
The English Gallants there dejected stand.
|
Wanting to their stout Hearts, thy Valliant Hand.
|
Trelawnys Ghost walk'd sadly by the Mole,
|
And Shriek'd instead of Thee, to meet thy Soul:
|
He hop'd t'have been Reveng'd by thy sharp Blade
|
And thou, as Pale as He, dost walk --- a Shade.
|
The English-Church, that had no better Friend,
|
(Next Heav'n & Charles, who doth her Faith defend)
|
Grieves at thy Death and fears her own sad Lot,
|
Since Fates, thus accessary to the Plot.
|
He whose Ambition all o'r world Alarms,
|
Looks now for more success unto his Arms,
|
Since Thou, who didst at Mons such acts of Praise,
|
Hast yielded now to Death the Victor's Bays.
|
Thy Sire, great Ormond, in thy Life more great,
|
(Because by thee preserv'd, from Envy's hate)
|
Like some vast Oak now rob'd of's leaves doth stand
|
By's Trophies scarce secur'd from Woodman's hand
|
Yet He (though Envy burst) is still secure,
|
Not in's own Worth so much, nor Vertues pure,
|
(Tho they the strictest Test may well endure;)
|
No nor in Charles his great Affection;
|
But only, 'cause he had so great a Son.
|
Why were the Heavens to England so severe,
|
As not to let thee Flourish longer here?
|
As thus to cut Thee off in thy full prime,
|
And give Thee so much Good for so short time?
|
Only to show thy Worth in Field and Court,
|
and then to snatch Thee hence, as if in sport?
|
Had we not known Thee, we had been content;
|
But who could know --- and not thy loss lament!
|
Yet since thy Death was fix'd by rigid Fate,
|
And to desire thy Self is now too late;
|
Thanks mighty Hector of our second Troy,
|
Thanks for Astyanax, thy hopeful Boy,
|
Young James, who influenc'd with Charles his Care,
|
May shortly prove in Valour too thine Heir,
|
|
|
|
|
|