AN Elegie vpon the death of the high and renowned Princesse, our late Soueraigne ELIZABETH. By I. L.
Imprinted at London for Iohn Deane, at Templebarre. 1603.
An Elegie vpon the death of the high renowned Princesse, our late Soueraigne ELIZABETH.
THE gentle season of the ioyous Spring,
That teaches all the little Birdes to sing.
In euery open Field, and shadie Tree,
Their sugred notes of sweete varietie,
Awakes my sleepie Muse awhile to play,
That in the shade of silence buried lay,
As loth to interrupt their pleasant Dittie,
With broken straines of griefe, or songes of pittie.
I graunt at first I should but lowly maske,
And not begin with such a loftie taske,
But softly warble on a Shepheardes reede,
The while my bleating flockes securely feede,
For feare the waxen winges wherewith I flie,
Should melt away with mounting vp too hie:
Yet pardon Griefe a greater fault then this,
And giue me leaue (though I haue done amisse)
A while to sing my April-song by roate,
Now euery Cuckoe learnes to tune a note:
Till Philomela grieuing for our wrong,
Lament our sorrow in some sweeter song:
Mine infant Muse begins but now to creepe,
Yet loe, already she has learnde to weepe,
To weepe for her, from whose vntimely death,
(Vntimely borne) she borrowes all her breath:
And early learnes her prayses to rehearse,
That with the fame of her immortall verse,
A neuer dying life she may obtaine,
And to her selfe a life of glory gaine.
Assist me then (ye Heliconian Dames)
And with the breath of your diuinest names,
Inrich my braine, inspire my barren Quill,
And heaue my Verses higher by your skill;
That I may sorrowfully sit and sing
About the bankes of your Castalian spring.
Or, rather, sing your selues, ye learned crew,
For who can sing so learnedly as you?
With Cyprisse branches let your browes be crownd,
And lifting vp your voyces siluer sound,
With all your learned instruments in hand,
Lament the Lady of the Faiery-land.
Or, rather, breake your instruments in twaine,
Nor euer play, nor euer sing againe,
But from your browes the veluet feathers teare,
And breake the crimson Coronets you weare,
And weepe, and wayle, and melt away to teares,
And wring your hands, and rend your yellow heares,
For siluer Cynthia has eclipst her light,
And with her absence makes eternall night.
She that so gallantly your daunces led,
That could so sweetly sing, so softly tread,
And with her musicke make your Consorts euen:
In scorne of earth, is gone away to heauen:
Leauing your chaster traines to march alone.
See where she sits vpon Apollos throne,
Within whose golden Charet she doth ride,
And of his sister is become his Bride.
Lament, lament, you Sheepeheards daughters all,
And eke you Virgins chast, lament her fall:
The Goddesse of your sports is lapt in lead,
And faire Virginia's fairest Queene is dead;
Oh, come, and do her corse with flowres embraue,
And play some solemne musicke by her graue,
Then sing her Requiem in some dolefull Verse
Or do the songs of Colin Clout rehearse.
Mourne, Phoebus mourne, and turne the day to night,
Dim'd is the Lampe, that shone so piercing bright,
Those starry eyes haue lost their glorious sight,
That lent thy Planet, and the world her light.
And you fayre golden skies that tooke such pryde,
Where euer blessed Beta did abide.
Your azur'd curtaines ouer her to spread,
With starres (like studs of gold) embellished:
Raine down fresh teares that they may drown your mirth,
And with your weeping water all the earth:
Maske vp your browes and weare your mourning coates;
Nor let the birds, with their melodious notes,
The emptie ayre a Schoole of musicke make,
As heretofore for faire Elizas sake.
In stead of those let all the fatall Fowles,
The crooking Rauens and disastrous owles,
Fill euery corner with their hellish cryes,
And with their gastly faces fright our eyes.
Weepe, Flora, weepe, and doffe thy spangled gowne,
And weare no more thy flower enameld crowne:
Cast not thy Tapstry mantels at our feete,
Nor fill the fragrant ayre with odours sweete;
For loe, the Flower which was so fresh and gay,
And made Nouember like another May,
How daintily so ere it did compose
The beautie of the white and crimson Rose,
The Flower is parcht, the silken leafe is blasted,
The Roote decay'd, and all the glory wasted.
Let Israel weepe, the house of Iacob mourne,
Syon is fallne, and Iudah left forlorne,
The Hill of Hermon drops no precious oyle,
Nor fruitfull Bashan, from his fartest soile,
But Dauids throne has all his beautie lost,
So farre admit'd through euery forreine coast.
The Paradice and Eden of our Land
Planted and kept by GODS Almightie Hand:
Where milke and honie Canaan-like did flow,
And Flowers of peace, and fruites of plentie grow;
Where Vines and Oliues, euermore were seene,
Vines euer Fresh, and Oliues euer greene:
With Brambles now and Briers is ouer-cast,
And like a desert desolate and wast.
The royall daughter of that royall King,
To whom all nations did their presents bring,
So bright of late, and glorious to behold,
Shining in garments of embroydered gold,
Esther our Queene, whose fame (with triumph crownd)
Haman of Spaine had neuer force to wound,
In spight of whom although he dar'd to striue
She has preserude her people all aliue:
This royall Queene, the heauens bright reflexe;
This foe of pride, this pride of all her sexe,
This Phoenex of the world, the worthiest Dame
That euer acted on the Stage of Fame:
(Hers be the ioy) to our eternall sorrow
Has payd to death the life that she did borow.
Ah! why should spightfull Nature hide away,
So rich a treasure in the lowly clay.
And burie in the bowels of the ground
The rarest Iem the world had euer found?
Or, why, respects she not her children more?
But leaues the earth so rich, and men so poore.
Spaine, clap thy hands, and laugh while we lament,
Our Staffe is broken, and our treasure spent,
The Staffe of ioy, the treasure of our ease,
The Life, the Crowne, the glory of our Peace:
Righteous Astraea from the earth is banish't,
And from our sight the morning starre is vanish't
Which did to vs a radiant light remaine,
But was a Comet to the eye of Spaine:
From whose chaste beames so bright a beautie shin'de,
That all their who rish eyes were stricken blinde.
Beta is dead, the glory of our pride;
Oh, who had thought that Beta could haue dyde?
Beta is dead, the honour of her race,
That has so long vp-held the royall Mace,
Whose Predecessours all haue princes beene,
And she her selfe a Princely Mayden-Queene.
Farewell (sweet Prince) where euer thou do bide,
Whether in earth, or by some angels side:
Farewell (great Queene) that art of Gody blest,
Well may thy buried bones securely rest:
Beta, farewell, and let thy purest spirit
(Where euer fled) the purest place inherite.
Goe blessed soule, and vp to heauen climbe,
Among the Angels seate thee there betime,
Shine like an Angell with thy starrie crowne,
And milke-white Robes descending fayrely downe,
Wash't in the blood of the vnspotted Lambe,
That slew the Beast, and made the Dragon tame.
There let thy sacred life (most sacred Dame)
Thy famous vertue, and thy vertuous Fame;
Whereof so many Pens haue writ the Story
Receiue the crowne of euerlasting glory.
Feast euer there and feed on sweetest ioy,
Without the tast of any sharpe anoy:
Liue euer there, in that Coelestiall skie,
Where (spight of death) thou neuermore shalt die;
Raine euer there on that Elyzian greene:
Eliza, well may be Elyziuius Queene.
And giue me leaue now I haue tuned long
The tragick accent of my dole-full Song
with Philomela to the silent darke;
Awhile to mount, and with the morning Larke
To greet that rising Sunne, which from the North
Displayes his beames, and darts his glory foorth.
Discouer then your Christall shining faces,
Ye learned Muses, and you louely Graces,
Set a full Period to your wofull cryes,
And cleare your browes, and wipe your blubbered eyes,
Nor do so sadly sigh, but sweetly sing,
And crowne with tryumphs our created King,
See how the Sunne for ioy of our good hap
Raines showres of gold into his Lemans lap:
See how the earth, to grace this ioyfull day,
Attyres her selfe in all her best array,
And paintes her coate with party colour'd flowres,
Dewd with the drops of sweet Rose-water shoures,
that glistring gay and smelling sweete
All like a Queene she might her bridegrome meete.
Harke how the feathered Quiristers do sing
Their Aue Caesar, to our crowned King,
With so diuine and delicate a sound
That through the ayre the neighbouring groues rebound
The sweete Alarums of their sugred notes,
Tun'd with their hollow bils and swelling throates.
Lift vp your heads, ye Christians that suruiue,
To see so faire a prince preseru'd aliue,
With hands and hearts to testifie your mirth,
Ring peales of gladnes thorough all the earth.
Chaunt loud Poeanas to his loftie Fame,
And songs of praise to high Iehouas Name,
Who still remaines as he hath still decreed
A God to Iacob, and to Iacobs seed,
And has not left his litle flock alone,
But kept a man to sit on Dauids Throne,
That he may raze the wall of Babell downe,
And to his kingdome adde another crowne.
Laugh not (proud Spaine) nor lift not vp thy crest,
But hide thy horns thou seuen headed beast:
The day is come thou hast so long expected,
Yet from thy rage our Land is still protected:
Till now thy bloody thoughs on hope haue fed,
But now thy thoughts with all thy hopes be dead,
And still our vine does flowrish more and more.
In spight of rauening Wolfe, or raging Boare.
For though our Deborah be dead and gone,
Whose Scepter scourg'd the towers of Babylon,
Yet Gideon liues, and like a man of God,
Suffers not Madian to be Israels rod:
But tramples still vpon thy crauen crowne,
And breakes thy hornes, and treads thy altars downe.
Long may he flowrish with his royall seed
That from his loynes so friutfully proceed.
Long he may raigne and high aduance his crest
Stretching his conquering armes from East to West,
Maulgre their beards, that haue with force appointed
To lift their arme against the Lords anointed;
Who though but IAMES the first of that degree,
Yet Lyon-heart the second he shall be:
The name of Lyon-heart becomes him best,
Witnesse the Lyon on his Lordly brest:
A happy signe, that for defence of Syon
Our valiant Lord will prooue a valiant Lyon.
Lo heere a sea of ioy, a world of woe,
Yet, loe, the sea the world doth ouer-flow,
See how our Phoenix mounts about the skies,
And from the neast another Phoenix flyes,
How happily before the change did bring
A Mayden-Queene, and now a manly King,
Whose Crowne and Empire does so widely stretch,
And ouer all the Land of Brittaine reach.
Then let vs all applaud this happy day,
And with vnited voyces strongly pray
That he may long our royall King remaine,
And peace and plentie crowne his blessed raine,
That victoryes selfe may tryumph on his Lawnce,
And through the world his honor'd Fame aduance.
So shall his Realme, so shall his Scepter flowrish,
And that his Crowne, and this his kingdome nourish
So honour still on vertue shall be grounded,
The foole deryded, and the proude confounded.
So shall his foes abate, his friends accrew,
And GOD haue prayse to whome the prayse is dew.
FINIS.