No, no, he is not dead; the mouth of Fame,
Honor's shrill Herald, would preserve his name,
And make it live in spite of death and dust,
Were there no other heaven, no other truft.
He is not dead: the sacred Nine deny,
The foule that merits fame, should ever dye;
He lives; and when the latest breath of fame
Shall want her trumpe to glorify a name,
He shall survive, and these selfe-closed eyes,
That now lie slumbring in the dust shall rise,
And fill'd with endlesse glory, shall enjoy
The perfect vifion of eternall joy.
13 El. by F. Quarles. Subjoined to Sion's Elegies, 1630.-Ed.
On the Death of a SCOTCH NOBLEMAN.
FAME, regifter of Time,
Write in thy scrowle, that I
Of Wisdome lover, and sweet Poefie,
Was cropped in my prime :
And ripe in worth, though greene in yeares did dye.
Drummond, p. 203.
Small 8vo. Ed.
METHINKES, I fee the nimble aged Sire
Passe swiftly by, with feet unapt to tire;
Upon his head an Hower-glasse he weares,
And in his wrinkled hand a sythe he beares,
(Both instruments, to take the lives from men)
Th' one shewes with what, the other sheweth when.
Methinkes, I heare the dolefull paffing-bell,
Setting an onset on his louder knell;
(This moody musick of impartiall death
Who dances after dances out of breath).
Methinkes I see my dearest friends lament,
With sighes and teares, and wofull dryriment,
My tender wife and children standing by.
Dewing the Death-bed, whereupon I lye :
Methinkes, I hear a voice (in secret) say,
" Thy glasse is runne, and thou must dye to-day."
Pentelogia, by F. Quarles.
Lond. 1630.
Upon the Death of CHARLES the First. Written with the Point of his Sword.
GREAT, good, and just! could I but rate
My grief to thy too rigid fate,
I'd weep the world to such a strain,
As it should deluge once again.
But since thy loud-tongu'd blood demands supplies,
More from Briareus hands, than Argus eyes,
Il'e fing thee obsequies with trumpet sounds
And write thy Epitaph in blood and wounds.
Printed amongst Poems by J. Cleaveland, 1665, Lond. Ed. See likewise, A Choice Collection of Comic and Serious Scots Poems. Edinburgh 1713.
ANELEGY
Upon the Honourable HENRY CAMBELL, Sonne to the Earle of A R.
'T's false Arithmaticke to
Expir'd to foone, or irreligious death
Prophan'd thy holy youth; for if thy yeares
Be number'd by thy vertues or our teares,
Thou didst the old Methusalem outlive.
Though Time, but twenty yeares account can give
Of thy abode on earth, yet every houre
Of thy brave youth by vertue's wondrous powre
Was lengthen'd to a yeare, each well-spent day
Keepes young the body, but the foule makes graye
Such miracles workes goodnesse; and behind
Thou 'ast left to us such stories of thy minde
Fit for example; that when them we read,
We envy Earth the treasure of the dead.
Why doe the fintull riot and furvive
The feavers of their furfets? why alive
Is yet disorder'd Greatnesse, and all they
Who the loose lawes of their wilde blood obey ?
Why lives the gamester, who doth blacke the night
With cheats and imprecations? Why is light
Looked on by those whose breath may poison it:
Who fold the vigor of their strength and wit
To buy diseases: and thou, who faire truth
And vertue didst adore, lost in thy youth?
But Ile not question fate: Heaven doth conveigh
Those first from the darke prison of their clay
Who are most fit for Heaven. Thou in warre
Hadst tane degrees, those dangers felt, which are
The props on which peace fafely dost subsist,
And through the cannons blew and horrid mist
Hadit brought her light; and now wert fo compleat
That naught but death did want to make thee great.
Thy death was timely then bright foule to thee,
And in thy fate thou suffer'dst not; 'twas we
Who dyed rob'd of thy life: in whose increase
Of reall glory both in warre and peace,
We all did share: and thou away we feare
Didit with thee, the whole stocke of honour beare.
Each then be his own mourner: we'll to thee
Write hymnes, upon the world an elegie.
Castara, 1640. Edit.
by W. Habington, Esq.
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