AN ELEGIE ON THE DEATH OF GEORGE MONCK, General of His MAJESTY's Forces, Duke of ALBEMARLE, &c.
(As it was Presented to the Late, and Most Deserving DUKE His SON.) Having appear'd about the same time an Extraordinary STARR.
CAn thy
Starrs, Heaven! think thy MONCK e're meant
To seek for
blazing from thy Firmament?
Ambitious Snuffs! He needs not them to tell
He
Great was, his own
Mettal sounds that knell.
Ah long-tayl'd walking Wisps above! ye show
But by your too much Moon, all's Night below:
That Flame I doubted was the
Rump on fire
(Some Jubile blaze) in th'Air, t' light Him higher:
When Heavens Christmass Candle's head was light,
Much did I fear
Great GEORGE's onely height
Could reach such rage; I knew too well hee'd fall,
When Gods turn'd
Link-boys for some Funerall.
Dire Death! before thou ne're could'st tyrannize,
With Him lies more than in the Earth 'gain lies:
England the worst is past, the
Best is gone;
Hereafter thou wilt scarce know how to moan:
The Plague's a scab to this, his Pile brings more
Ruine to th' City, than the Fire before.
Brave
Metempsucosis of GEORGE long past,
Thou but ascend'st to tell us what wee'd lost
Before thy Birth again; and that no more
Such Gallantry of Soul has CHARLES in store:
We need not dread more
lightning in our Skyes,
Jove can but All have for a Sacrifice.
Thrice constant Spirit, thou 'rt too Loyal grown;
(Since
Caesar's loss but Thou with joy could'st crown)
All-pale and dying Him why leav'dst? did'st fear
Rebellion once more in the Hemisphere?
No fire-nos'd
Vulcan do's in Heaven sit,
Thou did'st not hope a
Traytor there to meet:
A lower Orb for their High-treason's meant,
Which is as black as are the Harb'rers in't.
Farewell our Magazeen, we're robb'd; in vain
May plund'red Troups now cry,
Call GEORGE
again.
Hell upon Earth, or Hell upon Hell! see
All's
double-grim! there's not a Century
But's
dy'd again; their
former Mourning may
But be th' Lyning to
another to day:
All Black-Guards now are! Lo! they ne're were bred
To fly their Colours,
though their General
's dead.
Dead; (as I live) yet live in spite of Fate
He surely must, that could our King create:
Gods cannot die, and He could be no less,
Who was th' Guardian to such Sacredness.
Dead! that I were but cloyst'red in his
Tomb,
That he had liv'd, and I enjoy'd his
Home:
Else, since so
Great and
Good can have a Pit,
I wish I (
Russian-like) had leapt into't:
Thus, golden Oare (like th' Wiseman's Chymick stone)
Mixt with my common Sand, had made
Us one:
Then (whil'st below Pikes dragging were, Guns dumb,
With Flags as dismal as their Kettle Drum,)
How boldly I should have had fir'd my pass,
'Twixt
Nol and th' Prince of Air to happiness?
Compendious discipline to worth, wee've seen
In Him more must'red than the World again:
He was our Health, to Him our
Lives we owe,
Since Fate quell'd Him, We do desire to bow:
Oh quick some Knife! I'le to his Grave and trye
My transfus'd blood; if that serve not, I'le die:
Or bring my Gansa's, I'le to th' Moon; from thence
To Him in th' Orb Emperial I'le advance:
These if deny'd, I'le
Mars invoke, who shall,
With all the Law of Arms, revenge his Fall.
Ye Destinies, now cut your own threads, dare
Ye let me live and strike an
Officer?
He who before still (like the
Gorgon's head)
Though's Foes not Stone he made, he made as dead:
Base coward
Atropos, me thinks I see
Thee pale, and proud, yet blush at Victory:
As if some mighty Conquest thou had'st won,
But that again thou cam'st not fairly on:
Can MONCK and truest Valour fail, can He
Be vanquish'd by a poor
Anatomy?
Ha! then I fear our Arms must too lye
dead,
Nor do I wonder since they've lost their
Head:
Who having first his King set on his Throne,
Took now (too soon) possession of his
Own.
Thornburgh Freeman.
LONDON, Printed by and for Thomas Ratcliffe, and Thomas Daniel, and are to be sold at their House in New-street, betwixt Shooe-lane and Fetter-lane. 1670.