ON THE DEATH Of the Right Honourable THOMAS Earl of Ossory.
Pindariq' Ode.
Stan
[...]a 1.
NO more! — alas, that bitter word No more!
The Great, the Just, the Generous, the Kind,
The Universal Darling of Mankind.
The Noble
OSSORY is now, No more!
The mighty Man is fall'n —
From Glory's lofty Pinacle;
Meanly like one of us, He fell
Not in the hot pursuit of Victory,
As gallant men would choose to dy,
But tamely like a poor Plebeian, from His Bed
To the Dark Grave a Captive led;
Emasculating Sighs and Groans around,
His Friends in flouds of sorrow drown'd;
His awful Truncheon, and bright Arms laid by,
He bow'd his Glorious Head to Destiny.
2.
Celestial Powers, how unconcern'd you are?
No black Eclipse, or Blazing-Star
Presag'd the Death of this Illustrious Man,
No Deluge, No, nor Hurricane;
In her old wonted Course Nature went on,
As if some common thing were done,
One single Victim to Death's Altar come,
And not in
OSSORY an whole Hecatomb.
Yet, when the Founder of Old
Rome expir'd,
When the
Pellean Youth resign'd his breath,
And when the great
Dictator stoop't to Death,
Nature, and all her Faculties retir'd;
Amaz'd she started when amaz'd she saw
The breaches of her Ancient Fundamental Law,
Which kept the world in aw;
For Men less brave than Him, her very heart did ake,
The labouring Earth did quake,
And Trees their sixt Foundations did forsake;
Nature in some prodigious way
Gave Notice of their fatal Day;
Those lesser griefs with pain she thus exprest,
This did confound, and overwhelm her Breast.
3.
Shrink ye Crown'd Heads, that think your selves secure,
And from your Mouldring Thrones look down,
Your greatness cannot long endure,
The King of Terrors claims you for his own;
You are but Tributaries to his dreadful Crown:
Renown'd, Serene, Imperial, most August,
Are only high and mighty Epithets for Dust.
In vain, in vain so high
Our tow'ring Expectations fly,
While the blossoms of our hopes, so fresh, so gay,
Appear, and promise Fruit, then fade away;
From valiant
OSSORY's ever Loyal Hands
What did we not beleive?
We dream't of yet unconquer'd Lands
He to his Prince could give,
And Neighbouring Crowns retrieve;
Expected that He would in Triumph come
Laden with Spoils, and
Affrick Banners home,
As if an Hero's years
Were as unbounded, as our fond Desires.
4.
Lament, lament, you that dare Honour love,
And court her at a Noble Rate
(Your Prowess to approve)
That dare Religiously upon her wait
And blush not to be Good, when you grow Great,
Such Mourners suit His Virtue, and His State:
And You, brave Soul, who for Your Countries Good
Did wondrous Things in Fields, and Seas of Blood,
Lament th' undaunted Chief that led you on;
Whose Exemplary Courage could inspire
The most degenerate heart with Martial
English Fire.
Your Bleeding wounds who shall hereafter dress
With an Indulgent tenderness;
Touch with a Melting sympathy,
Who shall your Wants supply?
Since He, your good
Samaritan is gone.
O Charity! thou Richest Boon of Heaven
To man, in pity given!
For when well-meaning Mortals, give,
The Poor's and their own Bowels they relieve;
Thou mak'st us with alacrity to Dy,
Miss'd and bewail'd like Thee large-hearted
OSSORY.
5.
Arise ye blest Inhabitants above,
From your Immortal Seats arise,
And on our wonder, on our Love
Gaze with astonish'd Eyes.
Arise! arise! make Room,
Th' exalted Shade is come.
See where He comes! what Princely Port He bears!
How god-like He appears!
His shining Temples round
With Wreaths of Everlasting Laurels bound!
As from the Bloody Field of
Mons He came,
Where He out-fought th' Hyperbolies of Fame.
See how the Guardian Angel of our Isle
Receives the Deifi'd Champion with a smile!
Welcome the Guardian Angel says,
Full of Songs, of Joy and Praise,
Welcome thou art to me,
And to these Regions of Serenity!
Welcome the winged Quire resounds,
While with loud
Euges all the Sacred Place abounds.
THOMAS FLATMAN.
FINIS.
Printed at Dublin by Benjamin Tooke and John Crooke, Printers to the Kings most Excellent Majestie; and are to be sold by Mary Crooke at his Majesties Printing-House in Skinner-Row. 1680.