AN ELEGIE Upon the Never Satisfactorily deplored Death of that Rare Column of PARNASSƲS, M R. IOHN CLEEVELAND.
IS
CLEEVELAND Dead? and not one weeping Pen
Vote him in Text
The Miracle of Men?
Can the great Monarch of the Two-topt Hill
Visit the Shades? whose Star-encountring Quill
Had He but darted at insulting Death,
That pale-fac'd Tyrant had resign'd his Breath,
Tribute to
Lycambes Collar. Resist
His lightest Lash, Take him as
Satyrist
No Mortal can. Snaky
Medusa's Head
With one prick of his Neb he could strike dead;
His sublimated Style most justly mocks
A Muse that can't let-Blood the craggy Rocks.
And can his Laurel wither? Alas! He
As his owne Demesn hath Eternitie.
Great
CLEEVELAND scorns the Grave, and cannot Die,
Before an Exhalation to the skie
Gives fire with's flaming Beard, and shall presage
Some viperous Curse to cauterize this Age:
How then presumes this abhorr'd Scrietch-Owle Fame
To intrude Θ into
CLEEVELAND's Name?
He to whom Poets must in Homage fall,
And beg from
[...]s Verse their
Senses Festivall.
But ah! Fame's tipp'd with Truth, his soaring Soule,
That was both
Arctick and
Antarctick Pole
To Poesie; has filed off Her Clay,
And Eagle-wing'd dissects the Milky way;
And with undazled Eyes ascends as far
As the Eight Sphere, where She the Sixteenth Star
Makes of the first Magnitude. And conjoynt
With her Associates, lends this Terrene Point
A Loving Glance: whilest we with drowned Eyes
Deplore our Earth, Envy the now blest skyes.
Stupid
Astronomers! whose senseless Brain
The Middle Region is of Snow, Hail, Rain;
Did ye not by consent avow, This Yere,
No Black
Eclipse should Mask our
Hemisphere?
And yet with Despair see how
Greys-Inne Sun
Twelve Digits is Eclips'd, Muffled, O'rerun.
Resume your
Jacobs-Staffs, and with them take
The
Altitude of Truth, your gross mistake
Cancel, with a Prediction far more True
Than
Priam's chastest Daughter ever knew.
Till the vast Fabrick of the World shall Burn
Without Repair, and become its owne Urn,
Boldly assert, Men wisely may despair,
To see a Muse Merit the
Curule Chair
So much as
CLEEVELAND's. How? Nay, for to see
One that might make an Halting Simile.
Foretel the VVorld that there shall shortly be
Of Elements but a Triplicitie.
The Muses swear by
Styx, Their showring Eyes
Shall offer up the Earth a Sacrifice
To
Neptune's Trident. This not spurs our Fears,
VVho are all ready pickled up in Tears.
Apollo turns Close-Mourner, Burns his Bayes;
And nothing fly, but Melancholy Brayes
From
Pegasus Horse Throat. Fount
Caballine
For Sand hath Salt, the VVater being Brine.
The
Phoenix robs the VVardrobe of the East
(VVhen extreme Age indigitates Her Nest,)
Of the most fragrant Spices: And dares Dy,
VVithout a Cheer-up from a Stander by.
The Sun's Executor; and lets Her have,
As 'tis Her VVill, a Cradle, and a Grave.
Her Daughter crawles out first: Then learns to flye,
Probatum est:
the Way to live's, to Dye.
Could a much flatter'd Hope, create Belief,
Albions rare
Phoenix should Revive; our Grief
Should end in
Paeans: And thy Altars round
A Thousand
Hecatombs with Garlands crown'd,
(Great
Jove) should Low, whilst Wits in greatfull Crowds,
With Acclamations shall unrip the Clouds.
Alas! we cannot Beg His Life, of Fate,
Were sweet
Cyllenius our Advocate:
Not though in Thunder,
Jove commands Reprieve,
To see the Light will
Minos give Him leave;
And yet although 'tis frivolous to crave
An
Habeas Corpus from the Hated Grave;
Yet shall the
Pallas of Thy Laureat Head,
Of
Carian Mausolaeum stand in stead.
Thy Brain has had Immortall Issue, which,
Till Earths Grand Calcination, shall Enrich
Thy Name with Radiant Glory. We no Muse
Will invocate but Thine. Thee we will chuse
Our
Patron, Our
Apollo. He who Climbs,
Reason t' Embroyder with high Vaulting Rhymes,
That scorns His Nurses Words; And counts it cheap
To o're-top
Saturn at one fiery Leap;
Whose Pleasure makes
Vulcans tri'd Anvile yield;
Can force
Archilochus to run the Field;
Whom
Cato cals, the Glory of His Age;
And hath Mens Admiration as his Page:
Such, Such a Soule, may Vaunt Himselfe to be
A Dim Resemblance of Thy Muse and Thee.
Adieu Dear Sir! We Mortals will prove Just,
Alwaies adoring Your most sacred Dust.
The Earth on You lay light: VVhilest heavy Hearts
In Sighs and Throbs shall act our Tragick Parts.
Ever sit Thou Enthron'd ith' Peoples Vogue,
Thy Feaver being Nam'd
Wits Epilogue.
EPITAPHIUM.
IActare fas est, dives, O dives Marmor!
AErarium Magni cineris es
CLEEVELANDI.
Sub te Sepultus, qui potis mori Non est.
Virgilius Hic est
Anglicus: Tullius Hic est.
Ad alta semper cum sua tetendit Musa,
Altissimam ambit nunc Poesin: In Coelo,
Indesinenter cantitans
Hallelujah.
Dum Naenias celebramus atras stillante
Oculo, Viator! sis Tui memor Busti:
Elugeas
Catastrophen Hanc
Parnassi.
T. P.
Gen. Norfolciensis.
‘
VIATOR ILICET.’
London, Printed by W. Godbid, for Henry Marsh at the Princes Arms at the Lower end of Chancery Lane, near the Inner Temple Gate in Fleetstreet, 1658.