A
FUNERAL
ELEGIE
UPON
The lamentable losse of our late Leige and
Royall King JAMES departed.
Anno Dom. 1625.
March 27.
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WHo can induce his mournfull Muse to sing
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The Exequies of our deceased King?
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But he shall finde his minde with Griefe unfit
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To pen a Poem, or to publish it,
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Such quelling force, hath sad-unlookt-for newes
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Over the Soule, as that it doth infuse
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Nothing but dolors, and doth cause the brest
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To be with dismall Lethargies opprest,
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So that awhile having receiv'd griefes Wound,
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We seeme dead-smitten to the dampish ground,
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And by much sorrow senslesse are, so that
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We cry, and sometimes have forgot for what:
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And he that would a solid Verse compose,
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Must banish from him intellectuall foes,
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Such as are sorrowes, and disastrous Passions,
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Sad Humors, Rumors, inward perturbations,
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Distracting Terrors, Errors bread by Fame,
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When lying flying tales pervert the same;
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And feare lest these should intermingle Veritie,
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Makes the heart dumpish, and mistrusts Sinceritie.
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And there is none, who is a Subject true,
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That can so soone to sorrow say adiew,
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Whose verie soule is not as yet perplext,
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Disquieted, turmoyl'd, and soyl'd, and vext,
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When he remembers (oh! I sigh to tell)
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King James his bidding to this life farewell;
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Then blame ye not my rugged, ragged Rimes,
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O ye, the Nectar-Poets of our times;
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Halfe sentences, sad words, harsh Tunes and Tones,
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Best testifie the passionatest moanes;
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The Sacred-Frenzie, and the sugred straines,
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I now bequeath unto more happie Veines:
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For if I ever had a Faculty
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Of Versifying, it from me did fly,
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When as this wofull voice was uttered,
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The mightie Monarch James is lately dead.
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That now my heart can onely pant, and throbs
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Speaking imperfect sounds, cut off by sobs.
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A KING is gone, who for his Wisdomes store,
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England did never shew the like before;
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In Poetrie he likewise did excell,
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And Oratorie as the World can tell;
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For divers volumes learnedly he writ,
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Stuft with deepe Art, and Quintessence of wit.
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All Graces in his Heart did spring and breed,
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In Science, Conscience, he did exceed,
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And in his praise some Poet did indite
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This Disticke, which I underneath will write;
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For Wisdome Salomon, David for Pietie,
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An heav'nly Man, if not an earthly Deitie.
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His Gracious Spirits did in one combine
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To make just Lawes, both Morall and Divine.
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He did invent and vent marks to descrie
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The colour'd shewes of Romes Idolatrie:
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He pull'd the maske from off that Skarlet Whore,
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And made her better knowne than ere before,
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That all the Kings which live upon this Round,
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May Romish Babel studie to confound.
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He fought against her with that mightie Sword,
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Gods everlasting undiminisht Word.
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And now may those, who wish Romes overthrow
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(He gave the onset) strike the second blow.
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It was enough for him that he defi'd her,
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And by his writings publiquely descri'd her:
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He shew'd that Enemie, which once must fall;
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Happie be they which shall breake downe her wall.
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Methinkes I see his bookes taking their leave
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Of him, from whom they Being did receive,
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And heare his Soule speaking, as it was flying,
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Being about to leave his bodie dying,
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Farewell my works, but mayest thou never die,
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Which doest detect Papall Apostasie:
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Be thou the Summoner to cause Romes harmes;
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Fill Realmes with these, or some such like Alarmes,
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Arise ye Monarchs, looke you, this is she,
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'Gainst whom your forces should converted be:
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Pull downe her Tripple Crowne, settle upon her,
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Deprive her of her glorie and her honour.
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Why to yourselves doe you inferre a wound?
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Joynt-forces ruinate her to the ground.
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Why doe you live amongst yourselves at jarres?
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Weakning your powers by your Civill warres:
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Consent, for you are brethren, agree;
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Ye all of Rome must joynt Destroyers bee.
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Why should Manasses eat up Ephraim,
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And Ephraim, Manasses; Joyne with him,
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The Lord of Hosts, who saith Babel shall fall;
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Be ye his Instruments to pull downe all.
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I who am dying had determination,
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To have procur'd this foretold Desolation;
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And therefore did endevour to keepe peace,
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That civill warres amongst ourselves should cease:
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But Heavens did not allot me so great Fame
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To supplant Rome, though I had such a name;
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For I must die, my time is come, glasse runne,
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The Cloud of death must hide my shining Sunne.
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Rome may perhaps rejoyce, and triumphs keepe,
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When she shall heare that I am falne asleepe
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I'th'morning of my warres; but let her know
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Her Trophees doe before her troubles goe.
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My hands I sacrifice free from warres staine,
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Unto that Lord who menaceth her paine.
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Open ye Heavens, and doe my soule invest,
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Wars are begun on earth, but let me rest.
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And now, dread King, I greeve that thou art dead,
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And yet rejoyce that thou art gathered
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Unto thy Fathers in Celestiall Peace;
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For from contending cares thy brest shall cease.
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And I rejoyce there sits upon thy Throne,
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The living Picture of dead Salomon.
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Castor did set, and both his lights did close,
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But Pollux, or Apollo soone arose;
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Who shall protect these lands safe round about,
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And guide their goings in and commings out.
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Whom Moses-like the Lord from waves did free,
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And made him Ruler, England, over thee:
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He did refuse to be of Pharaohs kin,
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And yeelded not to their blasphemous sin.
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Whose Crowne upon his head the Lord keepe sure,
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As long as shall the Sun and Moone endure.
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Amen.
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