UST noble Hastings immaturely die,
The honour of his ancient family,
Beauty and learning thus together meet,
To bring a winding for a wedding sheet?
Muft virtue prove death's harbinger? must she,
With him expiring, feel mortality?
Is death, fin's wages, grace's now ? shall art
Make us more learned, only to depart ?
If merit be disease; if virtue death;
To be good, not to be; who'd then bequeath
Himself to difcipline? who'd not esteem
Labour a crime? study felf-murther deem?
Our noble youth now have pretence to be
Dunces fecurely, ignorant healthfully.
Rare linguist whose worth speaks itself, whose praise,
Though not his own, all tongues befides do raife:
Than whom great Alexander may feem less;
Who conquer'd men, but not their languages.
In his mouth nations spake; his tongue might be
Interpreter to Greece, France, Italy.
His native foil was the four parts o'th' earth;
All Europe was too narrow for his birth.
A young apostle; and with reverence may
I speak it, inspir'd with gift of tongues, as they.
Nature gave him a child, what men in vain
Oft strive, by art though further'd, to obtain.
His body was an orb, his fublime foul
Did move on virtue's, and on learning's pole:
Whose regular motions better to our view,
Than Archimedes' sphere, the heavens did fhew.
Graces and virtues, languages and arts,
Beauty and learning, fill'd up all the parts.
Heaven's gifts, which do like falling stars appear
Scatter'd in others; all, as in their sphere,
Were fix'd, conglobate in his foul; and thence
Shone through his body, with sweet influence;
Letting their glories so on each limb fall,
The whole frame render'd was celestial.
Come, learned Ptolemy, and tryal make,
If thou this hero's altitude canft take :
But that tranfcends thy skill; thrice happy all,
Could we but prove thus astronomical.
Liv'd Tycho now, ftruck with this ray which shone
More bright i'th' morn', than others beam at noon,
He'd take his astrolabe, and scek out here
What new star 'twas did gild our hemisphere.
Replenish'd then with fuch rare gifts as these,
Where was room left for fuch a foul disease ?
The nation's fin hath drawn that veil, which shrouds
Our day-fpring in so sad benighting clouds,
Heaven would no longer trust its pledge; but thus
Recall'd it; rapt its Ganymede from us.
Was there no milder way but the small-pox,
The very filthiness of Pandora's box?
So many spots, like næves on Venus' foil,
One jewel set off with so many a foil;
Blisters with pride fwell'd, which through's flesh did sprout
Like rofe-buds, ftuck i'th' lily-fkin about.
Each little pimple had a tear in it,
To wail the fault its rifing did commit:
Which, rebel-like, with it's own lord at strife,
Thus made an infurrection 'gainst his life.
Or were these gems sent to adorn his skin,
The cab'net of a richer foul within ?
No comet need foretel his change drew on,
Whose corps might seem a conftellation.
O! hat he dy'd of old, how great a ftrife
Had been, who from his death should draw their life?
Who should, by one rich draught, become whate'er
Seneca, Cato, Numa, Cæfar, were ?
Learn'd, virtuous, pious, great; and have by this
An universal metempsychosis.
Must all these aged fires in one funeral
Expire? all die in one so young, so small?
Who, had he liv'd his life out, his great fame
Had fwol'n 'bove any Greek or Roman name.
But hafty winter, with one blast, hath brought
The hopes of autumn, summer, spring, to nought.
Thus fades the oak i'th' fprig, i'th' blade the corn;
Thus without young, this Phoenix dies, new-bern.
Must then old three-legg'd grey-beards with their gout,
Catarrhs, rheums, aches, live three long ages out ?
Time's offals, only fit for th' hofpital!
Or to hang antiquaries rooms withal !
Must drunkards, lechers, spent with finning, live
With fuch helps as broths, poffets, physic give?
None live, but fuch as should die? shall we meet
With none but ghostly fathers in the street ?
Grief makes me rail; forrow will force its way;
And showers of tears tempestuous sighs best lay.
The tongue may fail; but overflowing eyes
Will weep out lasting streams of elegies.
But thou, O virgin-widow, left alone,
Now thy beloved, heaven-ravish'd spouse is gone,
Whose skilful fire in vain strove to apply
Med'cines, when thy balm was no remedy,
With greater than platonic love, O wed
His foul, though not his body, to thy bed :
Let that make thee a mother; bring thou forth
Th' ideas of his virtue, knowledge, worth;
Transcribe th' original in new copies; give
Hastings o'th' better part: so shall he live
In's nobler half; and the great grandfire be
Of an heroic divine progeny:
An issue, which, t'eternity shall last,
Yet but th'irradiations which he caft.
Erect no mausoleums: for his best
Monument is his spouse's marble breast.
HEROIC STANZAS on the Death of OLIVER
CROMWELL, written after his Funeral.
now 'tis time; for their officious haste, Who would before have borne him to the sky,
Like eager Romans, ere all rites were past,
Did let too foon the facred eagle fly.
Though our best notes are treason to his fame,
Join'd with the loud applause of public voice;
Since heaven, what praise we offer to his name,
Hath render'd too authentic by its choice.
Though in his praise no arts can liberal be,
Since they, whose Muses have the highest flown,
Add not to his immortal memory,
But do an act of friendship to their own :
Yet 'tis our duty, and our interest too,
Such monuments as we can build to raise;
Left all the world prevent what we should do,
And claim a title in him by their praise.
How shall I then begin, or where conclude,
To draw a fame so truly circular;
For in a round what order can be shew'd,
Where all the parts so equal perfect are ?
|