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The Royal MOURNER.
Upon the Princess Elizabeth's Death.
1652.
No
Prophet's tongue should this sad loss condole,
Unless first heated by the Altar's coal.
Nor Poet to an Elegy aspire.
If not inlightn'd with Apollo's fire.
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And I more nobly influenc'd by her Name;
How, with more joy, had I imploy'd my hours
In writing of her Sun-shine, than her showers?
Ah! who would think such Sun-beams should be known
To dry all Springs of tears, unless her own?
Or rather, that her Suns, (with all their beams)
Should be extinguish't by those native streams?
When the World's Eye its proper safety found,
And yet its Body was i'th' Deluge drown'd;
With quickning smiles it did recruit the Earth,
Making it pregnant with a second birth;
But hers (like Nature in her last extremes)
Melted a way, by weeping down their beams.
Such dashing rains, and Tempests often rage
I'th' Winter Solstice of afflicted age.
Experience then of woes occasion brings
To ope the Flood-gates of our flowing Springs.
Wet seed-times oft' are crown'd with fruitful years;
And they shall reap in joy that sow in tears.
Her highest Region was free from the powers
Either of sighing storms, or weeping showers.
Like pow'rfull Cynthia, there her Soul did show,
Ruling the Tides of raging Seas below.
For she (like Venus) amidst Seas was born;
And her short life, alas, one rainy morn!
Thus early Lillies (Virgins of the year)
Ne'r ope' their wakeful Eyes, without a tear.
Too moist a Season makes 'em droop and dye,
And in their native winding-sheets to lie.
A common grief may common tears extort;
But hers were blood-drops of a weeping heart.
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Were not more fatal, than the tears she bled.
Thus Flora's justest Pride, the Rose, appears,
Produc'd not only, but nurst up with Tears.
All its short time with the like drops 'tis fed,
And tears each Night bedews its fragrant Bed.
At last, being tortur'd by unnat'ral heats,
Dyes as 'twas born, and weeps away in Sweats.
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