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On the death of M. George Sandys.
When that Arabian bird, the Phœnix dies,Who on her pile of spices bedrid lies,
And does t'herselfe a sacrifice become,
Making her grave an Altar, and a Wombe,
T'inclose her pregnant dust, she can redeem
Those ruines she her selfe has made, and teem
With a new Phœnix: but now Sandys is gone,
And melted to a dissolution,
I'th Furnace of a Feaver, can his Vrne
An equall fine, or interest returne
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Are wholly beggar'd; for his Sepulcher
Is like some thrifty Steward, put in trust
To take account of every grain of dust
That moulders from the fabrick of his clay,
But when the generall fire which the last day
Shall sparkle with, shall a new flame inspire
Into his Vrne, and that Poetick fire
Which was so long an Inmate to his brest,
Shall be call'd forth from out that Marble Chest,
Where it now lies rak'd up amongst the dust,
And embers of his clay; and when that rust
That choakes it up, shall be dispers'd, the light
Of this enfranchis'd flame shall shine so bright
Amidst our Horison, 'twill seem to be
The Constellation of all Poetrie.
Tell me not then, that Piramids disband,
And drop to dust; that times ungentle hand
Has crush'd into an indigested Masse,
And heap of Ruines, Obelisques of Brasse,
That our perfidious tombs (as loath to say
We once had life and being too) decay;
And that those Flowers of Beauty which do grow
In Ladies cheeks, amidst a bed of snow,
Are wither'd on their stalk; or that one Gust
Of a bleake Ague can resolve to dust
Those hands which did a Globe and Scepter hold,
Or that that head which wore a Crowne of Gold,
May be wrap'd up within a shroud of Lead,
Neglected, and forgot, since Sandys is dead;
Within whose Brest Wits Empire seem'd to be,
And in whose Braine a Mine of Poetrie:
For who'l not now confesse, that Time's that Moth
Which frets into all Art, and Nature both,
Since he who seem'd within his active Brain
So much of salt and verdure to contain,
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And shrunk away into corruption:
But these excursions their Conception owe
To passion, or from our wild Phansies flow;
All that we now can do is to returne
Some Flowers of Poesie unto his Vrne,
Which being burnt in his owne Funerall flame,
Wee'l offer up, as Incense, to his name,
Which yet by sent and colour will be known
T'have sprung from him, and t'have been first his own.
And if these Flowers cannot so perfume
His name, but that 'twill (manger these) consume,
Our tears strew'd on it, will repeale that Fate,
And in his wither'd fame, new life create;
As when the treasures of the Spring are crop'd
And by untimely Martyrdom unlop'd,
From off their stalke, we can their death reprieve,
And a new life by water to them give:
So now when Sandys like the Springs flowry birth,
By deaths rude sithe is mowed from off the earth,
And throwne into a grave, to wither there
Into a heap of ashes, though no teare
Can piece his dust together, we may weep
A Bath of tears, in which we yet may steep
His memorie, which will (like Æson) when
'Tis thus manur'd, grow fresh and young agen;
And being thus embalm'd, a Relique lie
To be ador'd by all posteritie.
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