A Funeral TEAR, TO THE MEMORY OF THE HONOURABLE Capt. Iames Killigrew: WHO Unfortunately lost His Life in His MAJESTY's Service, in an Engagement with Two French Men of War, in the Mediterranean Sea; on the 27th. of January last, 1694/5.
Immodicis Brevis est Aetas, & rara Senectus.
By E. SETTLE.
LONDON: Printed for R. Hayhurst, in Little-Britain, 1695.
A Funeral Tear, &c.
HOW strangely
Nature does Her
Treasures heap;
Her
Richest Jems, in Cabinets so
Cheap!
Her Sparks of
Heav'n to Walls of
Earth dispos'd,
And the Great
Souls in Brittle
Clay enclos'd:
All
Riches have their
Wings; ev'n
Courage dies;
The
Casket breaks, and vanishing
Jewel flies:
Weak-Armour'd
Life! In
Wars destroying Field,
Neither the
Champion, nor the
Cause, can shield!
In Her whole List,
Britannia ne'er cou'd boast
More Hopeful
WORTH, nor more
Ʋntimely lost;
Not wak'd, like Sluggards, at their Noon-day Sun;
HONOƲR His Active
Morning Race begun:
Such
YOƲTH did never
Manlier Virtue grace,
The
Soul of
Mars, in an
Endimion's Face!
YOƲTH, where those equal
Charms all smiling grew,
For
Cynthia's Darling, and
Bellona's too!
Nor in His single Veins such
COƲRAGE runs;
Sprung from a
Race, adopted
Neptune's Sons;
Cheer as Their
Quarrel, when bold
Danger calls,
And Stout, as Their own
Floating Castle Walls:
His
Brother's
FLAG, with His own
Streamers, joyn'd;
Hereditary Brav'ry! Comes of
Kind!
Methinks, I see His Single dauntless
Hulk,
Against His Two tall
Foe's o'er-topping
Bulk,
Deal round Her
Roaring Deaths, in Iron Ball;
Unequal Combat, English
VALOƲR All:
There wanted so much
Odds His
Fate to push,
Whom less than
Weight, and
Numbers, ne're cou'd crush.
But let not His Insulting
Gallic Foes
Too proudly boast this
Young cropt English
ROSE;
That Vanity Their
Sanguine Blushes tell:
He dy'd Their
Lillies Crimson, e're He fell.
Nay, such true
COƲRAGE fought, ev'n beyond Death;
His
Thunder still surviv'd, whilst His
Last Breath
Does to His
Neptune-Successors inspire
His own Great
SOƲL, that
Transmigrating Fire,
That to Their Arms
Life, Spir'it, and
Vengeance lends,
The hovering
Genius His
Own Conquest ends.
Nor was this
Scene of
Albion Glory pent
In Her own
Wat'ry Walls, (Her
Vassal Element;)
The
Tyrrhene Strand did at those
Bolts rebound;
Not
Thames, but listning
Tyber, heard the Sound:
Nor
Rome's alone, but
Rome's old
Rival Shoar;
Her
Carthage Africk-Coast, the Echo bore:
Nay, ev'n the Neighb'ring
Crescent must Proclaim
The
British CROSS's envy'd
Race of
FAME:
Such
Distant HONOƲR, her
far Thunder hurld,
To drive her
Hunted Foes around the
World.
Thus his proud
Fame, on Her most tow'ring Wings,
At once His
Dirge, and
Io Paean, sings;
A Fate, that ev'n in
Death the
Triumph bore:
The great
Gustavu's Fall cou'd do no more.
But, oh! hard Fated Lawrels! This
Young Head
So early lodg'd in
Honour's Fatal
Bed!
But when in that sweet
Bloom, such
COƲRAGE dies,
His Mourners are not only
Martial Eyes;
The
God, and His own Anvil
Cyclop-Crew,
Their Tears to that
Young Hand, so justly due:
A
Hand, that from Their own Great
Forge cou'd weild
Their Massiest
Bolts; their keenest
Lightning held:
But the whole
Nine, each
Muse, and ev'ry
Grace,
Must, at this
Loss, bedew her
Virgin Face.
Yes, If the Humbler
Muses feebler Sound,
Is not in all Thy louder
Tritons drown'd;
Their softest
Harmony shall tune Thy
Praise,
And chant Thy Name in Her Immortal Lays.
What tho' in
Foreign Tombs Thy
Ashes sleep,
And distant
Ʋrns those Envy'd
Reliques keep;
Yet still Thy Native
Albion Soyl alone,
Shall claim thy
Birth, a Glory all her Own.
What more Thou leav'st behind, that larger Claim,
Thy fair
Example, and thy fragrant
FAME,
More than One single
Nation shall supply;
Let the whole
World Divide Thy
MEMORY.
FINIS.