AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF MR. R. W., SLAIN IN THE LATE UNFORTUNATE DIFFERENCES AT ROUTON HEATH, NEAR CHESTER, 1645.
I am confirmed, and so much wing is given To my wild thoughts, that they dare strike at heav'n. A full year's grief I struggled with, and stood Still on my sandy hopes' uncertain good, So loth was I to yield; to all those fears I still oppos'd thee, and denied my tears. But thou art gone! and the untimely loss Like that one day hath made all others cross. Have you seen on some river's flow'ry brow A well-built elm or stately cedar grow, Whose curled tops gilt with the morning-ray Beckon'd the sun, and whisper'd to the day, When unexpected from the angry North A fatal sullen whirlwind sallies forth, And with a full-mouth'd blast rends from the ground The shady twins, which rushing scatter round Their sighing leaves, whilst overborn with strength Their trembling heads bow to a prostrate length? So forc'd fell he; so immaturely Death Stifled his able heart and active breath. The world scarce knew him yet, his early soul Had but new-broke her day, and rather stole A sight than gave one; as if subtly she Would learn our stock, but hide his treasury. His years--should Time lay both his wings and glass Unto his charge--could not be summ'd--alas!-- To a full score; though in so short a span His riper thoughts had purchas'd more of man Than all those worthless livers, which yet quick Have quite outgone their own arithmetic. He seiz'd perfections, and without a dull And mossy grey possess'd a solid skull; No crooked knowledge neither, nor did he Wear the friend's name for ends and policy, And then lay't by; as those lost youths of th' stage Who only flourish'd for the Play's short age And then retir'd; like jewels, in each part He wore his friends, but chiefly at his heart. Nor was it only in this he did excel, His equal valour could as much, as well. He knew no fear but of his God; yet durst No injury, nor--as some have--e'er purs'd The sweat and tears of others, yet would be More forward in a royal gallantry Than all those vast pretenders, which of late Swell'd in the ruins of their king and State. He weav'd not self-ends and the public good Into one piece, nor with the people's blood Fill'd his own veins; in all the doubtful way Conscience and honour rul'd him. O that day When like the fathers in the fire and cloud I miss'd thy face! I might in ev'ry crowd See arms like thine, and men advance, but none So near to lightning mov'd, nor so fell on. Have you observ'd how soon the nimble eye Brings th' object to conceit, and doth so vie Performance with the soul, that you would swear The act and apprehension both lodg'd there; Just so mov'd he: like shot his active hand Drew blood, ere well the foe could understand. But here I lost him. Whether the last turn Of thy few sands call'd on thy hasty urn, Or some fierce rapid fate--hid from the eye-- Hath hurl'd thee pris'ner to some distant sky, I cannot tell, but that I do believe Thy courage such as scorn'd a base reprieve. Whatever 'twas, whether that day thy breath Suffer'd a civil or the common death, Which I do most suspect, and that I have Fail'd in the glories of so known a grave; Though thy lov'd ashes miss me, and mine eyes Had no acquaintance with thy exequies, Nor at the last farewell, torn from thy sight On the cold sheet have fix'd a sad delight, Yet whate'er pious hand--instead of mine-- Hath done this office to that dust of thine, And till thou rise again from thy low bed Lent a cheap pillow to thy quiet head, Though but a private turf, it can do more To keep thy name and memory in store Than all those lordly fools which lock their bones In the dumb piles of chested brass, and stones Th'art rich in thy own fame, and needest not These marble-frailties, nor the gilded blot Of posthume honours; there is not one sand Sleeps o'er thy grave, but can outbid that hand And pencil too, so that of force we must Confess their heaps show lesser than thy dust. And--blessed soul!--though this my sorrow can Add nought to thy perfections, yet as man Subject to envy, and the common fate, It may redeem thee to a fairer date. As some blind dial, when the day is done, Can tell us at midnight there was a sun, So these perhaps, though much beneath thy fame, May keep some weak remembrance of thy name, And to the faith of better times commend Thy loyal upright life, and gallant end.
Nomen et arma locum servant, te, amice, nequivi Conspicere------------