[Page] P. M. S. An Elegiac POEM IN Memory of that truly worthy and Loyal Gentleman William Whitmore Esquire.
Late of
Balmes in the County of
Middlesex. Who being Wounded by the Casual Discharge of his own Pistol departed this life
July the
31th
1684.
VIVIT POST FUNERA VIRTUS.
VVHen the loud Trump of Fame the News had spread
The Young, the Brave, the Generous
Whitmor's dead.
One general groan tun'd every gentle Breast
And flowing Tears from e'ry Eye-lid prest.
The
Hero that in chase of Fame had trod
The slaughter'd Field, and Forded Streams of Blood
Flusht in the Arts of Death, yet wept to see
A
Brother fall without a Victory.
Apollo's Sons forsook their Withering
Bayes,
Laid by their Books, forgot their tuneful
Layes,
And Dumb with stupid grief, could only sigh
Mecenas their lov'd Patrons
Elegy.
But must he then have none? If learned Verse
Be suffer'd only to attend his Hearse,
Raptures and Figures of the first degree
Strain'd to the highest Notes of Extasie.
Such as of old the
Mantuan Bard inspir'd,
Or
Athens in her Pride of Power admir'd
I must be silent; yet i've heard it said,
The meanest duties which to Heaven are paid
Are kindly taken, if devoutly made.
[Page] What if I then, can't bring as others do?
With what I have, his Funeral Hearse Isle strew,
And to the Dust his dear remains Persue:
Sad thought, and must he thither go? Ah Death!
Can nothing bribe thee to recal his Breath?
If hoards of Virtue sav'd in earliest Youth
Exalted Wit, Wealth, Loyalty or Truth
Are worth thy value, give us back this one
Of all the numerous Subjects of thy Throne.
From his own gatherd stock he'le pay thee more,
Ten thousand times then what thou'st got before
A few dead bones alas are all thy store.
And where's the Booty, where's thy Treasure then?
Where thy Proud Conquests o're the Sons of Men?
Vain death, and yet inexorable too!
They happiest are, that in a Camp persue
Thy charged Bolts, and snatch a Fate from you.
Thus would, thus wisht, our
Hero to have fell
In a fair Field from Honours Pinnacle;
Amidst the ranks of Ranged Warriors crown'd,
With Verdant Bayes, in Rolls of Fame renown'd,
Whilst Drums, and Ecchoing Trumpets through the Skies,
In doleful Dirges sang his Obsequies.
But spiteful Death this you deny'd him too,
And basely stole his life e're 'twas thy due:
His Blooming years scarce past and yet to come
Ages of Honour e're he reach't a Tomb,
Fate promist him. But Murd'rer as thou art
Whilst in Persuit of these, thy Coward Dart
Unseen, and unexpected reach't his heart.
Malicious Fact! yet done 'tis past redress
Thy Shaftes are spent, his Glory near the less,
Beyond the grave thy Power can ne're extend,
Thy Triumphs there, meet their Appointed end.
Whilst Mounted through the Spheres on Angels Wings,
He's made a Courtier of the
King of
Kings,
And 'mongst his
Peers the
Songs of
Glory sings
We only have the loss, that yet survive
We only mourn, who yet are doom'd to live.
Lifes Burthen none on Earth would eas'ly bear
The Whips of fortune, and the goads of Care,
Th' Oppressors Wrongs, the Laws delay, the Taunts
Of Great men, or the Poor mans starving wants.
Could they like him Disburthen'd of the Toyl,
Be made Possessors of an Heavenly Soyl,
Where in Immortal Joys with God above,
He tastes the Banquets of Immortal love.