THE daughter of a king of princely parts,
In beauty eminent, in virtues chief;
Loadstar of love, and loadstone of all hearts,
Her friends' and husband's only joy, now grief;
Is here pent up within a marble frame,
Whose parallel no times, no climates claim.
VERSES frail records are to keep a name,
Or raise from dust men to a life of fame ;
The sport and spoil of ignorance; but far
More frail the frames of touch and marble are,
Which envy, avarice, time, ere long confound,
Or misdevotion equals with the ground.
Virtue alone doth last, frees man from death;
And, though despis'd and scorned here beneath,
Stands grav'n in angels' diamantine rolls,
And blazed in the courts above the poles.
Thou wast fair virtues' temple; they did dwell,
And live ador'd in thee; nought did excel,
But what thou either didst possess or love,
The Graces' darling, and the maids of Jove;
Courted by Fame for bounties, which the Heaven
Gave thee in great; which, if in parcels given,
Too many such we happy sure might call;
How happy then wast thou, who enjoy'dst them all!
A whiter soul ne'er body did invest,
And now, sequester'd, cannot be but blest;
Enrob'd in glory, 'midst those hierarchies
Of that immortal people of the skies,
Bright saints and angels, there from cares made free,
Nought doth becloud thy sovereign good from thee.
Thou smil'st at earth's confusions and jars,
And how for Centaurs' children we wage wars:
Like honey flies, whose rage whole swarms consumes,
Till dust thrown on them makes them veil their plumes.
Thy friends to thee a monument would raise,
And limn thy virtues; but dull grief thy praise
Breaks in the entrance, and our task proves vain ;
What duty writes, that woe blots out again :
Yet Love a pyramid of sighs thee rears,
And doth embalm thee with farewels and tears.
THOUGH marble porphyry, and mourning touch,
May praise these spoils, yet can they not too much;
For beauty last, and *** this stone doth close,
Once earth's delight, Heaven's care, a purest rose.
And, Reader, shouldst thou but let fall a tear
Upon it, other flow'rs shall here appear,
Sad violets and hyacinths, which grow
With marks of grief, a public loss to show.
RELENTING eye, which deignest to this stone
To lend a look, behold here laid in one,
The living and the dead interr'd; for dead
The turtle in its mate is; and she fled
From earth, her *** choos'd this place of grief
To bound * * thoughts, a small and sad relief.
His is this monument, for hers no art
Could frame; a pyramid rais'd of his heart.
INSTEAD of epitaphs and airy praise,
This monument a lady chaste did raise
To her lord's living fame; and after death
Her body doth unto this place bequeath,
To rest with his, till God's shrill trumpet found; Though time her life, no time her love could bound.
TO SIR WILLIAM ALEXANDER.
WITH THE AUTHOR'S EPITAPH.
THOUGH I have twice been at the doors of death,
And twice found shut those gates which ever mourn,
This but a lightning is, truce ta'en to breathe,
For late-born sorrows augur fleet return.
Amidst thy sacred caves, and courtly toils,
Alexis, when thou shalt hear wand'ring fame
Tell, Death hath triumph'd o'er my mortal spoils,
And that on earth I am but a sad name;
If thou e'er held me dear, by all our love,
By all that bliss, those joys heaven here us gave,
I conjure thee, and by the maids of Jove,
To grave this short remembrance on my grave:
Here Damon lies, whose songs did sometime grace The murmuring Esk ;—may roses shade the place.
Too long I follow'd have my fond desire,
And too long painted on the ocean streams;
Too long refreshment sought amidst the fire,
Pursu'd those joys which to my soul are blames.
Ah! when I had what most I did admire,
And seen of life's delights the last extremes,
I found all but a rose hedg'd with a brier,
A nought, a thought, a masquerade of dreams.
Henceforth on thee, my only good, I'll think;
For only thou canst grant what I do crave;
Thy nail my pen shall be; thy blood, mine ink;
Thy winding-sheet, my paper; study, grave:
And, till my soul forth of this body flee,
No hope I'll have but only, only thee.
To spread the azure canopy of heaven,
And spangle it all with sparks of burning gold;
To place this pond'rous globe of earth so even,
That it should all, and nought should it uphold;
With motions strange t'endue the planets seven,
And Jove to make so mild, and Mars so bold;
To temper what is moist, dry, hot, and cold,
Of all their jars that sweet accords are given;
Lord, to thy wisdom's nought, nought to thy might:
But that thou shouldst, thy glory laid aside,
Come basely in mortality to 'bide,
And die for those deserv'd an endless night;
A wonder is, so far above our wit,
That angels stand amaz'd to think on it.
WHAT hapless hap had I for to be born
In these unhappy times, and dying days,
Of this now doting world, when good decays,
Love's quite extinct, and virtue's held a scorn!
When such are only priz'd by wretched ways,
Who with a golden fleece them can adorn;
When avarice and lust are counted praise,
And bravest minds live, orphan like, forlorn!
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