SOME TEARES Dropt ore the Herse Of the INCOMPARABLE PRINCE HENRY Duke of GLOUCESTER.
FAtal
September to the Royal Line,
Has snatch'd one Heröe of our hopeful
Trine
From Earth; 'tis strange Heav'n should not praedeclare
A loss so grievous by some
Blazing Star,
Which might our Senses overjoy'd, alar'm,
And time give to prepare for so great Harm.
The Spring-tide of our Joy was newly Flood,
Paying our Thankful Vows for so much good
We gather now, under a gracious KING;
Inspired
Bards began strong Lays to Sing,
When (ôh sad Fate!) Ebb'd are our Flowing Seas,
And
Epiques chang'd to Doleful
Elegies.
Cruel Extremes! thus robb'd of Joys the chief,
Thrown down like Light'ning into Seas of Grief.
'Tis past the reach of Mortals to devine,
Why Heav'n so soon has broke our
Threefold Line;
We may not pry without a black offence
Into th'
Arcana's of his Providence,
But may believe, since with a Bounteous Hand
God has restor'd the Blessings of this Land,
That he has flung us into Griefs extreme,
Not out of Wrath to Us, but Love to Him.
He was Fair Fruit sprung from a Royal Bud,
And grown as great by fair Renown as Blood;
Ripe too too soon; for in a Youth so green
An Harvest was of gray-hair'd Wisdome seen.
Minerva's Darling, Patron of the Gown,
Lover of Learning, and
Apollo's Crown
He was; the Muses he began to nourish,
Learn'd Men and Arts under his wings did flourish;
But lest we should commit Idolatry,
Heav'n took him from our Sight, not Memory;
For though he's carried to th' Immortal Sphere,
Our Loves will make his Fame Immortal here.
'Tis Autumn now, and
Ceres to our hands
Has pour'd the Annual Blessings of our Lands;
We'ave robb'd the teeming Trees of all their fruit,
And left them naked till the Spring recruit
Their store again; till then they hang their head,
And stand like
Mourners, leaves for
tears they shed;
So the high powers Cropt from the Royal Stem,
What was too good for us, and fit for them,
Whilest we lament, till a new Spring arise,
And CHARLS his
First-born clear our weeping eyes.
A general Sadness locks up every Tongue,
Amazedness has struck the
Laureats dumb:
And who would weep, through too much Grief forbears,
Excess of Grief gives yet no vent for Tears,
But when the Coming Springs begin to rise,
Grief then will draw a deluge from our Eyes;
Till then these Loyal Drops fall'n into Verse,
Shall wash the Cypress on his Royal Herse.
London, Printed by W. Godbid for Henry Brome at the Gun in Ivy-lane, and Henry Marsh at the Princes-Arms in Chancery-lane neer Fleet-street. M. DC. LX.