AN ELEGY ON JAMES SCOT, Late Duke of MONMOUTH.
THOU Plague, and Bane of Mortals,
Flattery,
Of Humane-kind, half are undone by Thee.
How is th' Unfortunate Wrack't Merchant lost?
From thy false Hope of some Rich
Indian Coast,
Betray'd by Thee, to perish in a Wave;
Thine the hid Rock, and Thine his watry Grave.
Why does the Traytor Plot, or Rebel Storm,
And Canting Zealots
Church and
State Reform?
Led only by Thy Visionary Dreams;
Till in persuit of Crowns and Diadems,
With many a Restless Night and tugging Groan,
They mount a
Scaffold whilst they seek a
Throne.
Nor by Thee only loaded
Gibbets bow,
And yawning
Graves attend Thy
Fatal Blow;
For even by Thee
Aspiring Angels fell▪
False Hopes of
Heaven made the first step to
Hell.
Such,
Monmouth, was Thy Fall; this Tempter stood,
Poysoning thy
Ear, and cank'ring all thy Blood;
To thy
Fond Eye with
Artful Phantoms fill'd
The Treacherous
Magnifying Mirrour held;
Show'd a poor
Shrub a Royal
Cedar-Plant,
And beautifi'd thy Glass to
Adamant.
Here, poor lost
Monmouth, lay the Fatal Snare,
Thy
Life, thy
Fame, thy
All, were Ship wrackt here.
Once the
Bright Leader of a
Shining Train,
The
Constellations in Great
CHARLES his
Waine;
Till from thy Forfeit glittering Orb of
Light,
By
Black Ingratitude, t'Eternal
Night,
Too Justly doom'd, and down all headlong driven,
A
Falling-Star from thy once Native
Heaven.
On what Foundation does
Ambition rise?
In all its Luster, Crown'd with
Victories,
Yet cemented with
Blood, By
Treason built,
An
Airy Glory rais'd on
Solid Guilt:
But Crush'd and Damn'd by
Heav'ns revenging Hand,
To
Publick Shame, and an
Eternal Brand:
What a dull Page in the Black-Book of
Fame
Will
Monmouth fill with a
poor Blasted Name?
Where's all th'
Hosannah's of the
Shouting Crowd?
Will their kind
Sorrows speak but half so loud?
No! wretched Thing, that
Popular Wind's blown o'er:
HEAVEN and Great
JAMES do their
lost Sense restore,
And the old
Prince o'th' Air now reigns no more.
Ʋnmourn'd farewel, thy Hearse even unbedew'd
By thy own once
Adoring Multitude.
And if a Tear falls from a
pittying Eye,
The Mournful Cause does that sad Drop supply,
Is not thou dyed'st, but didst
deserve to Die.
Deserv'd indeed: for never Man
possest
Of such vast
Royal Smiles, so
rais'd, so
blest,
Apostatiz'd like Thee.—
Nay, even thy
Tears had learn'd to forge so well,
That when at
CHARLES and
JAMES's Feet they fell,
Thy very
Penitence play'd the
Infidel.
So fal'n from Faith, thou turn'dst Perfideous too,
Even to thy own assisting
Rebel Crew;
Whilst thy
Argyle and
Rumbold's latest Breath
Damn'd thy
false Vows and Curst Thee even in
Death.
But let thy Buried Faults
forgotten lie,
And
Monmouth's Crimes with bleeding
Monmouth die.
And to allow Thee still thy
Just Applause,
We'll praise thy
Valour, though we loath thy
Cause.
Nay, and to make thy Fame yet larger Room,
And strew
some Sweets even on a
Rebel's Tomb;
Thy
Storm but rose to drive our
Clouds away,
And thy
Black Morn began our
Halcyon Day.
Whilst
Thy Rebellion does
our Bliss compleat,
A Kingdom
Happy made, and Monarch
Great;
For
Treason's to Eternal
Silence doom'd,
And
grinning Faction in thy
Ʋrne entomb'd;
Whilst
Angels to Great
JAMES his Guard move down,
And
Jacob's Ladder waits on
Caesar's Crown.
Some Honour then is even to Treason due;
So
Judas's
Crime some
Glory challeng'd too.
Whilst even that
Guilt, where the perfideous Slave
Betray'd his
GOD and
Master to a
Grave.
Was
Instrumental a
whole World to save.
This may be Printed,
July 16. 1685.
R. L. S.
LONDON: Printed for C. W. and are to be sold by Walter Davis in Amen-Corner. 1685.