AN ELEGY ON THE Death of the Worthily Honoured THE LORD CHARLES RICH.
CAn one of Englands Cedars shrink away
So privately, into a Bed of Clay,
And be Eclipsed from the eye of Day?
HOw should this Jem be lost? could we not crave
A short Reprieve? But now are forc'd to have
Ten thousand Weeping eyes to watch his Grave:
ALas! the hand of Heaven has Cut his Twine,
And lock'd him in a Tomb, whose Barrs confine
More Glorious Riches than an Indian Mine.
RAis'd with the Glorious Angels to their Quire,
This High born Soul sings with th' Immortal Lyre,
Warm'd by the Sacred Heat of Holy Fire.
LOve's Triumph, Earth's fair Jem, and Flora's Bower,
Beauties Array, Worlds Wonder, Natures Flower,
Was Cropt, and Crowned in a happy hour.
EArth, to thy trust we recommend the Prize
Of this bright Oar, there needs no watchful eye,
Love stand to Guard him while he Buried lyes.
SParkling in Brightness, Scituated High,
Clob'd in the highest Glory, there his Eye
Is fill'd with Triumphs of Eternity.
REst in thy quiet Urn, let no Weed dare
Spring from thy hallowed Earth, but Flow'rs most fair
Surround thy Closet with persumed Air.
IOve, Pallas Juno, and the Muses, near
This place will sit sometimes, to drop a Tear,
While this sweet Captive is a Pris'ner here.
COuld I but reach thy Virtues in their Prime,
My Fancy would be quickly so Sublime,
I'de out-write Ovid in his highest Rhyme.
HArmonious Soul, now all thine Anthems be
High Halleluiahs, and 'tis best that we
Do sing our Maker's Praise in Imitating Thee.
[...]