Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

Enough! Enough! I'le hear no more,
And would to Heav'n I had been deaf before
That fatal Sound had struck my Ear:
Harsh Rumor has not left so sad a note
In her hoarse Trumpet's brazen throat
To move Compassion, and inforce a Tear.
Methinks all Nature should relent, and droop,
The Center shrink, and Heaven stoop,
The Day be turn'd to mourning Night,
The twinkling Stars weep out their Light,
And all things out of their Distinction run
Into their primitive Confusion.
A Chaos, with cold Darkness overspread,
Since the Illustrious Ossory is dead.

315

II.

When Death that fatal Arrow drew,
Ten Thousand hearts he pierced through,
Though one alone he out-right slew;
Never since Sin gave him his killing Trade,
He, at one shot, so great a slaughter made;
He needs no more at those let fly,
They of that wound alone will dye,
And who can now expect to live, when he,
Thus fell unpriviledg'd we see!
He met Death in his greatest Tryumph, War,
And always thence came off a Conqueror,
Through rattling shot, and Pikes the Slave he sought,
Knock't at each Cuirass for him, as he fought,
Beat him at Sea, and baffled him on shore,
War's utmost sury he out-brav'd before:
But yet, it seems, a Fever could do more.

III.

The English Infantry are Orphans now,
Pale Sorrow hangs on every Souldiers brow:

316

Who now in Honour's path shall lead you on,
Since your beloved General is gon?
Furl up your Ensigns, case the warlike Drum,
Pay your last honours to his Tomb;
Hang dow your Manly heads in sign of woe;
That now is all that your poor Loves can do;
Unless by Winter's Fire, or Summer's shade
To tell what a brave Leader once you had:
Hang your now useless Arms up in the Hall,
There let them rust upon the sweating Wall;
Go, Till the Fields, and with inglorious Sweat,
An honest, but a painful living get:
Your old neglected Callings now renew,
And bid to glorious War a long adieu.

IV.

The Dutch may now have Fishing free,
And, whilst the Consternation lasts,
Like the proud Rulers of the Sea,
Shew the full stature of their Masts;
Our English Neptune, deaf to all Alarms,
Now soundly sleeps in Deaths cold Arms,

317

And on his Ebon Altar has laid down
His awful Trident, and his Naval Crown.
No more shall the tall Frigat dance
For joy she carrys this Victorious Lord,
Who to the Captain chain'd Mischance,
Commanding on her lofty board.
The Sea it self, that is all tears,
Would weep her soundless Channel dry,
Had she unhappily but Ears,
To hear that Ossory could dye.
Ah, cruel Fate, thou never struck'st a blow,
By all Mankind regretted so;
Nor can't be said who should lament him most,
No Country such a Patriot e're could boast,
And never Monarch such a Subject lost.

V.

And yet we knew that he must one day dye,
That should our grief asswage;
By Sword, or Shot, or by Infirmity;
Or, if these fail'd, by Age.

318

But He, alas! too soon gave place
To the Successors of his Noble Race:
We wisht, and coveted to have him long,
He was not old enough to dye so soon,
And they to finish what he had begun,
As much too young:
But Time, that had no hand in his mischance,
Is sitter to mature, and to advance
Their early hopes to the Inheritance
Of Titles, Honors, Riches, and Command,
Their Glorious Grandsir's Merits have obtain'd,
And which shines brighter than a Ducal Crown,
Of their Illustrious Family's Renown;
Oh, may there never fail of that brave Race,
A man as great, as the great Ossory was,
To serve his Prince, and as successful prove
In the same Valour, Loyalty, and Love;
Whilst his own Vertues swell the cheeks of Fame,
And from his consecrated Urn doth Flame
A Glorious Pyramid to Botelers Name.