MEMENTO MORI:
AN ELEGY On the Death of His Grace the Duke of Grafton.
WHen first around our Isle the News was spread
(Ah, dismal News!) the Noble Duke was dead.
Such was the sudden Transport of our Fears,
We were unwilling to believe our Ears;
But when the Confirmation of it came,
Ah, doleful News! Ah, dismal Word of Fame!
Like Men intranc'd we stood, and in amaze,
With ghastly Eyes did on each other gaze.
But he is gone—
And he whose Eyes bedew his sacred Urn,
Each pious drop into a Pearl will turn
To adorn his Hearse: But he who none can vent
Doth bring more Marble to his Monument.
Him Heav'n a Pattern did for Heroes form,
Quick in Advice and eager to perform.
In Councel calm, fierce as a Storm in Fight;
Danger his Sport, and Labour his Delight:
To him the Fleet, and Camp, the Sea, and Field,
Did equal Harvests of bright glory yield.
Who can forget how Valliantly, how Free,
He did assert the Empire of the Sea.
The
Gallick Fleet endeavour'd but in vain
The Tempest of his Fury to sustain;
Shatter'd and torn before his Flag they flew,
Like Doves that the exalted Eagle view,
Ready to stoop and seize them from on high,
With all the Wings of fear and haste do fly.
The glorious Feats this Valliant Duke hath done,
Hath
Englands highest Admiration won:
And though in deepest Grief we mourn him gon,
We may rejoyce that he was ours so long.
And if the Immortal dead do see, or know,
The various Actions of Mankind below,
Sure his bright Soul with kind concern looks down,
And breaths auspicious Wishes to the Crown.
How blest were we, had we the Blessing known,
When we had Princely
GRAFTON for our own;
But Heaven, that we our mighty Happiness
Might truly understand, did make it less,
And did his Noble Soul from us remove
To encrease the Number of the Bless'd above:
Ye partial Heavens must Princely Heroes thus,
Though they have liv'd like Gods, yet die like us.
Patience in smaller Evils may be shown,
But oh! such Grief as this admits of none.
In vain we Hope and Sigh, in vain we Pray,
If what we Love must thus be torn away:
But we confess with Grief, that Princes Breath
Is frail like ours, like us they stoop to Death.
And we must own how fondly we began
To fancy
GRAFTON somewhat more than Man:
'Twas he whose flaming Courage did disdain
The slow Advances of a vulgar Man.
His early Years in bloody Wars did show
What riper Age might for his Country do.
'Twas he who did in raging Fire and Storms
Defend the Crown our gracious King Adorns.
'Twas he who made the
Irish Rebels Quake,
And trembling
French their Trenches to forsake;
But ah, he's gone!—
Excelling Prince, oh! once our Joy and Care,
Now our eternal Grief and deep Dispair:
Whether were all those careful Angels fled,
That were intrusted with thy sacred Head?
Where were they then! how did they misemploy
There Time, when thou didst on thy Death-bed ly,
And bow'd thy Head to awful Destiny!
Impartial Death, like
Tarquin's Wand,
The soonest reaches those that highest stand,
Letting Ignoble, Useless, Shrubs alone,
And strikes the stately full grown Poppy down.
But when a Noble Heroe yields to Fate,
Then Sorrow rises in the greatest State.
The sullen'st Mortal then will shed a Tear,
And Death in all its grandure doth appear.
But oh! I've done, for whilst to mind I call
His God-like Worth, the Tears like Rivers fall
From my swell'd Eyes, half languish'd now with Cares,
Shaded with Grief, and almost quench'd in Tears.
Lisensed,
Octob. 27. 1690.
J. F.
LONDON, Printed by Richard Cheese, Jun. in the Year 1690.