Selected quad for the lemma: death_n
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A54950
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An epistolary poem to John Dryden, Esq. occasion'd by the much lamented death of the Right Honourable James, Earl of Abingdon / by William Pittis ...
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Pittis, William, 1674-1724.
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1699
(1699)
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Wing P2319; ESTC R2510
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10,123
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24
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Isis's Sons and Isis's Sons have lays Deserving Fame and which Desert can praise Silent they stand and with their Harps unstrung Adore that Worth which should ador'd be sung Grief pow'rful Grief prevailing on their Sense Permits them not to sing the Fate 's Offence But Thou Great Bard whose hoary Merits claim The Laureat's Place without the Laureat's Name Whose Learned Brows encircled by the Bays Bespeak their Owner's and their Giver's Praise Thou Dryden should'st our Loss alone relate And Heroes mourn who Heroes canst create Amidst thy Verse the Wife already shines And owes her Vertues what she owes thy Lines Down from above the Saint our Sorrows views And feels a second Heaven in thy Muse Whose Verse as lasting as her Fame shall be While thou shalt live by Her and she by Thee Oh! let the same immortal numbers tell How just the Husband liv'd and how he fell What Vows when living for his Life were made What Floods of Tears at his Decease were paid And since their deathless Vertues were the same Equal in Worth alike should be their Fame But thou withdrawn from us and publick Cares Flatter'st thy Age and feed'st thy growing Years Supine unmov'd regardless of our Crys Thou mind'st not where Thy Noble Patron lies Wrapt in Death's Icy Arms within his Urn Behold Him sleeping and beholding mourn Speechless That Tongue for wholesom Counsels fam'd And without sight those Eyes for Lust unblam'd Bereav'd of Motion are Those Hands which gave Alms to the Needy did the Needy crave Ah! such a Sight and such a Man Divine Does only call for such a Hand as Thine Great is the Task and worthy is Thy Pen The best of Bards should sing the best of Men. Awake arise from Thy Lethargick State Mourn Britain's Loss tho' Britain be ingrate Nor let the sacred Mantuan's Labours be A Ne plus ultra to Thy Fame and Thee Thy Abingdon if once Thy glorious Theme Shall vie with His Marcellus for Esteem Tears in his Eyes and Sorrow in his Heart Shall speak the Reader 's Grief and Writer's Art And tho' this barren Age does not produce A great Augustus to reward Thy Muse Tho' in this Isle no good Octavia reigns And gives Thee Virgil's Praemium for His Strains Yet Dryden for a while forsake Thy Ease And quit Thy Pleasures that Thou more may'st please Apollo calls and ev'ry Muse attends With ev'ry Grace who ev'ry Beauty lends Sweet is Thy Voice as was Thy Subject's Mind And like His Soul Thy Numbers unconfin'd Thy Language easy and Thy flowing Song Soft as a Vale but like a Mountain strong Such Verse as Thine and such alone should dare To charge the Muses with their present Care Thine and the Cause of Wit with speed maintain Least some rude Hand the sacred Work prophane And the Dull Mercinary Rhiming Crew Rob the Deceas'd and Thee of what 's your due Such Fears as these if Duty cannot move And make Thy Labours equal to Thy Love Should hasten forth thy Verse and make it show What Thou Mankind and ev'ry Muse does owe As Abingdon's High Worth exalted shines And gives and takes a Lustre from thy Lines As Eleonora's pious Deeds revive In Him who shar'd Her Praises when alive So the stern Greek whom nothing could perswade To quit the rash Engagements which he made With sullen Looks and Helmet laid aside He sooth'd his Anger and indulg'd his Pride Careless of Fate neglectful of the Call Of Chiefs entreating till Patroclus's Fall Rouz'd by his Death His Martial Soul could bend And lose his whole Resentments in his Friend As to the dusky Field he wing'd his Course With Eyes impatient and redoubled Force And wept him dead in thousands of the Slain Whom living Greece had beg'd his Sword in vain One Friend in Tears that shade could only boast And Grecia gain'd in what Achilles lost But Oh! the Glorious Dead to whom we pay Our present Grief and fruitless Sighs convey He so his Worth demands and Vertues crave Is wept by Thousands who could Thousands save Yonder He lies ah what has Albion done To be thus punish'd in Her Noble Son Round Him his Orphan Children Pensive stand And Sadness reigns and deepest Griefs command Brave Manly Sorrow sits upon their Face And speaks at once their Duty and their Race A Father's Death for Lamentations crys But what that asks a Father's Life denies Their Hearts are acting what their Eyes forbear Remembring what He was and what They are Amidst the rest superlative in Care Erects Himself his Wealth and Honour's Heir To Heav'n He looks for Heav'n alone could take A Soul like His of bright Aetherial make And argues with its Laws and blames those Pow'rs Who suffer'd Fate to thwart His Vows and Ours As His Religion with His Duty strives And He bewails for lost what He revives The Sons describ'd the Brothers next appear And Leeds and Lindsey pensive Sable wear The first the Prop and Atlas of the State Tho' now resign'd the Charge and pompous Weight And who had still could murm'ring Brittains know What grateful Minds to their Protectors owe Bestow'd his Counsels and pursu'd his Toils Had we return'd his Labours with our Smiles But We to do this thankful Nation right Hug the Deliv'rance the Deliv'rer slight And use such odd Acknowledgments as show Not what We take but what the Givers owe. Grant Heav'n the Pilot gone that Albion's Realm May never want His Guidance at her Helm Round Her may no rough Storms or Billows beat To force Him from His Leisure and retreat Tho' much I fear and prescious is the Muse That She shall court that Help we could refuse The last but oh what daring Pen can shew Sorrows like His and paint those Sorrows true In Vertues and in Honour's List the Chief Mournful He stands yet Conq'ror of His Grief His Father's Courage boils within His Veins And o're the Brother's Loss contends and reigns But why alas do I in vain pursue Sorrows like His which fly the Searchers View The Noblest Muse in such Attempts must fail Heroes like Him should grieve behind a Veil Yet cannot I tho' lowly be my Song And whom 't would praise perhaps the Verse may wrong Neglect such Goodness and such Worth forbear Which I ev'n I by His Example share Lindsey A Name to Britain's Subjects known So far from Fraud and yet so near the Throne The Courtier 's Pride without the Courtier 's Arts And great His Post as great are His Deserts Retir'd from all the Pageantry and Pride Of Pallaces in private to reside He flies the Place where specious Ills resort And loves the Monarch tho' he shuns the Court But I too far by Lindsey's Worth am led And in the living Heroe lose the Dead Ah! Sacred Shade from sinful Albion torn Whom we must ever want and ever mourn Whose Life could teach us and whose Death could tell The Comforts and the Ioys of living well He from above our weak Attempts surveys And
Author with thy Art To lash the griping Wretch who dare debase So fine a Structure and so sweet a Place May P l leave him nor V n more Act a Coquet or an imagin'd Wh re May W ks no fam'd Sir Harry Wild-airs make Diverting only for its Actors sake But Patentee left Weeping in the lurch See Drury-Play-house thin as Parish-Church 'Till it at last has neither Wh re nor Cully A just Reward for Dorset-Garden Folly And is let out to finish it's disgrace To sell the Meat that 's kill'd at t'other Place Printed in the Year 1700. A PANEGYRICK On the Author of Absolom and Achitophel occasioned by his former writing of an Elegy in praise of Oliver Cromwel lately Reprinted WHEN Old Philosophers wrote the Worlds Birth And from wild Chaos brought great Nature forth The self same Atoms as they different ran Club'd to a Lyon Monky Bear or Man From such thin Sires such solid Off-springs grew So Divine Wite like the First Matter Thou Thy subtle Sparks do such strange Products make That Thou just nothing yet all Forms canst take So justly thou hast deserved thy long-worn Bays That as a Trophy to thy Endless Praise Let that great Poem its long Silence break The worthyest of thy vast Creation speak Methinks I fancy how bold Mutius Dart Was levell'd at Porsenna's Royal Heart And in defeated Rage I see him doom His 〈◊〉 Hand t'its flaming Martyrdom Leâ—â—is poor Deeds in dull Oblivion dye Thy Vengeance with a surer Aim lets fly 〈◊〉 keen Iambicks 'gainst thy Sovereign Lord Thy Pen was more Successful than his Sword So vast a Pile thy lofty Numbers raise Those Babel-Builders to great MOLOCHS praise A Pile which to thy Honour will surpass Even thy own Corah's Monumental Brass Thou writest with so much Flame Flame so refined That Poetry's the Feaver of thy Mind And Feaver-like in those bleak days of Yore When Loyalty was Naked left and Poor Thy Aguish Veins Chill'd at a Starving Door But Burning high thy active Spirits run At prosperous Rebellions warmer Sun When Phaeton misled the Day and hurl'd His scatter'd Fires around the scorching World How would his Glories in thy Meeter Chime The Groans of Worlds thus softned into Rhime Or when great Nero set his Rome on Fire And Tuned its Ruine to his jocund Lyre How with his Musick would thy Notes agree A Song great Bard fit to be Set by Thee Such Wonders have thy powerful 〈◊〉 â—hown Pythagoras Transmigration thou 'st 〈◊〉 done His Souls of Heroes and great Chiefs Expired Down into Birds and Noble Beasts retired But thou to Savages and Monsters dire Canst infuse Sparks even of Coelestial Fire Make Treason Glory Murderers Herbes live And even to REGICIDES canst GOD-HEADS give Thus in thy Songs the yet warm Bloody Dart Fresh â—eaking in a Martyr'd Monarchs Heart Burnish't by Verse and polisht by thy Lines The Rubies in Imperial Crowns outshines Whilst in Applause to that sad days Success So Black a Theme in so Divine a Dress Thy Soaring Flights Prometheus Thefts excell Whil'st Thou stealst Fire from Heaven t'enlighten HELL But stay my Muse here change thy gawdy strain And shew a New no less Prodigious Scene That Lawrell'd Head whose sweet Melodious Tongue To Curse ye Meroâ— IOPAEAN Sung A Bag-pipe Drone to the old Priestcrast Cant Who once did Consecrated Daggers chant And Englands great Ravilliack sung before Now Tunes his Pipes to Davids Righteous Lore In Caevolas Stump the Convert Pen he brings And his Burnt Hand now writes the Praise of Kings Thus Bold thus Great and all in the Extream His Panegyricks are like Daniel's Dream This Tribute now to David's Glory pay A Head of Gold to his old Feet of Clay No wonder then so Feelingly he tells Of Corahs Shimeis and Achitophells Such Characters he may well gild so fine Who has their Rich Ore from his own Native Mine How vast an Orh has a Poetick Soul Grasps all from East to West and Pole to Pole Its warbling Voice Right Wrong Truth Falshood Sings Tuned to all States Religions Gods or Kings Oh Wit how Wide is thy Circumference Where thy Attractive Center 's Bread and Pence Pence did I say oh they have charming skill To rouse the Gaul of an Heroick Quill Is there not mighty sound and mighty fence In great Iscariots thirty câ—inking Pence By this Lucina hast thou born with pain The numerous Off-springs of thy teeming Brain More various Issues in Nile's slimy Bed Not thy own Patron Phaebus ever bred Thy pregnant Heats like Israels wanton Lust First mould thy Golden Calves then pound them into Dust. Write on and more then Winds or Frenzy Range Keep still thy old Prerogative to Change 'T is poor Humanity that 's kept in bound Whilst Power unlimited is God-like found Then thy Great self thou wondrous Poet show Honour and Principles 〈…〉 know Thy Mercurye's too proud to 〈…〉 All Laws and Bounds let thy wild Muse despise And raign the Prince o th' Air in which 〈…〉 Reprinted in the Year MDC 〈…〉 AN ELEGY On the most celebrated Poet of the Age John Dryden Esq Who Departed this Life May the 1st 1700. MOnarchs of Wit and Worlds must all lay down One Fate waits both the Laurel and the Crown Even DRYDEN what e'er Immortality The Muse may claim the Bard alas must dye Apollo's Eldest Son in Dust thus layd What Pomp must make his Funeral Cavalcade By the whole Muses Race that Honour'd Head To his great Urn in solemn Sables led WIT mourn'd by Wit Those the chief Mourners here No let that sullen Tribe bring up the Rear WIT 's so ill Natur'd grown they have not all One genuine Tear worthy to mourn his Fall At distance then the envying Scriblers stand Nor let His Rites be by false Tears profan'd Let Worth and Honour the Ingenius Fair And the Learn'd Great be the true Mourners there They whose rich Cabinets his Works adorn Who with his loftier Ayrs awake the Morn Or with his softer Numbers lull their sleep Theirs are the Eyes this Albion Loss should weep VVhat tho' the warmth of Youth in Age retire It chill'd no Spark of his Poetick Fire VVit 's verdant Bays unshockt by VVinter's Blast Like VVit 's great Patron God should Youthful last Vig'rous and warm did his last Numbers glow Like Aetna kept the Flame beneath the Snow To the last Gasp thus his tun'd Raptures ran And only finisht like the dying Swan What tho' his Laureat Raign once shock'd by Fate For Wit like Empire has its Turns of State The blushing World his Muse's Throne beheld By such poor Empty Heads supply'd not fill'd He kept this yet unshaken Glory still He only lost the Feather not the Quill Let Garth's and Blackmore's th' Albion World divide Whilst warring Criticks battle on each side Parties and Factions there in Arms appear Uncertain Victory all Chance of War The popular Favour there on either side All Ebb and Flow the Torrent 's but a Tide Great Dryden no such giddy Scepter sway'd All Knees his Universal Homage pay'd DRYDEN so fill'd th' Apollinary Throne DRYDEN Wit 's Alexander raign'd Alone And as when that Great Head no longer shin'd In Death his World but not his Fame resign'd His numerous Successors put in their Claim So the poor Rivals to Great Dryden's Fame All petty Candidates their weak Pretensions raise And only Caâ—â—on out his vast Immortal Praise EPITAPH Here lies in Dust All that in Dust can lye As much of Dryden as had pow'r to dye Tombs we may build him But where Ashes best Deserve a Monument they need it least His lasting Praise from dull Oblivion safe Is fairer Read than in an Epitaph Nor needs there Pyramid or vaulted Dome The Superstructure to enrich his Tomb. His Pile of Volumes does that Work alone WIT needs no Mausoleum but its own LONDON Printed and are to be Sold by I. Nutt near Stationers-Hall