AN ELEGY IN Commemoration of the Right Honourable James Earl of Salisbury, Who Departed this Life on the (7th) of this Instant June Anno Domini 1683. Mors Omnibus Communis, &c.
⟨12. June. 1683⟩
CAN
Sal'sbury be dead? Can Death Surprize
The Miror of mankind, and from our Eyes;
The Brinie Rivulets not force their way;
Nor sullen grief her last due Tribute pay;
At his sad Mournful Herse whose high deserts,
Fame's loudest breath to all the world imparts?
What can the Good, the Great, the Just Expect,
On Earth, if Man-kind shou'd such worth Neglect?
If black Ingratitude her wings should spread,
To shade the sacred Relicts of the dead
In dark Oblivion Natur's self wou'd groan,
And make the mighty loss to
England known;
The loss of one in Arts and Arms Renown'd,
With
Olive-Branches and with
Lawrels Crown'd.
Fam'd as his Aucestors, who braving Fate,
Durst prop the Nation in it's falling State,
And almost bore a Tottering Empir's Weight.
For Piety admir'd; in Councils Grave;
Curteous at home, and in the Field as Brave;
Bounteous to all, that did his Bounty Crave.
Religious Friend, an Enemie to those,
Who were his Princes and his Countries Foes.
The Roman Engins by his prudence foild,
Back on him sought in vain to have recoil'd:
His Loyal mind unmov'd stood like a Rock,
And unconcern'd repell'd the raging Shock
Of Boisterous Billows vvhen they vvent most high
Proof arm'd with Innocence and Constancy;
He did the worst of dangers still out
[...]vie.
Sure Bucklers those are which can never fail,
But will against the worst of ills prevail;
Strong Forts Impregnable that none can scale.
No force can ravish from a virteous brest,
That inward calmness that secures it's Rest.
Let Tides rise high, and Tempests rufle loud,
Winds fight with Winds, and Cloud, still justle Cloud,
Till all seem Chaos; yet in this Extream,
He's undisturb'd that holds Truths Golden Mean.
Cecil, that Name long to our Nation known,
Has prov'd an Ornament to Grace our Throne;
Esteem'd a Jewel in the British-Crown,
Polish'd by Deeds, that purchas'd high Renown.
But since the World has lost his better part,
His great immortal mind which durst assert,
Unto the last his Kings and Country's Right,
Since that to Heaven has swiftly taken Flight:
On Wings of Cherubs, Center'd there in bliss,
Lodg'd on a Coast full stor'd with happiness;
Whence cares, and fears, are banish'd, Peace and Rest
Are the attending constant welcome Guest.
And all is Love, such Love as ne'r can die,
But lives and lasts to all Eternity.
Let Virtue Mourn the loss of him below;
And Charities Dim Eyes with Tears o're-flow.
Let Mournful
Cyprus shade each learned brow,
Let all true worth with weighty sorrow bow;
And Sing his Requiems with a doleful sound,
For all of these Death's Shaft, in him, did wound.
EPITAPH
Mourn Reader, for beneath this Marble lies,
(Till the last Trumpet Summons him to rise)
Great Sal'sbury: Nay, stay, 'tis but his dust,
Heav'n with the rest wou'd Earth no longer trust.
His better part's exalted far above,
The reach of Fate those endless joys to prove,
For which he labour'd in his Pilgrimage,
Whilst here he trod the World's uncertain Stage;
Yet Mourn his loss, for though he joys possess,
We by his death have gain'd unhappiness.
Wisdom by him her Orator still speak,
And wou'd no other for her Champion take,
Than he whose Virtues kept the world awake.
LONDON Printed for Langly Curtis. 1683.