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 | Miscellaneous works of George Wither |  |
We
must resign; heav'n his great Soul doth claim,
In Storms as loud as his Immortal Fame;
His dying Groans, his last Breath shakes our Isle,
And, Trees uncut, fall for his Funeral-Pile;
About his Palace, their broad Roots are tost
Into the Air; so, Romulus was lost;
So, New-Rome, in a Tempest, mist her King,
And from obeying, fell to worshipping.
In Storms as loud as his Immortal Fame;
His dying Groans, his last Breath shakes our Isle,
And, Trees uncut, fall for his Funeral-Pile;
About his Palace, their broad Roots are tost
Into the Air; so, Romulus was lost;
So, New-Rome, in a Tempest, mist her King,
And from obeying, fell to worshipping.
On Oeta's top, thus Hercules lay dead,
With ruin'd Oaks, and Pines about him spread:
Those, his last Furie, from the Mountain rent,
Our dying Hero, from the Continent
Ravish'd whole Towns, and Forts from Spaniards reft,
As his last Legacy to Britain left.
The Ocean, which our Hopes had long confin'd,
Could give no Limits to his Vaster Minde.
Our Bounds inlargement was his latest toil,
Nor hath he left us pris'ners to this Isle;
Under the Tropick, is, our Language spoke,
And Part of Flanders hath receiv'd our Yoke.
With ruin'd Oaks, and Pines about him spread:
Those, his last Furie, from the Mountain rent,
Our dying Hero, from the Continent
Ravish'd whole Towns, and Forts from Spaniards reft,
As his last Legacy to Britain left.
The Ocean, which our Hopes had long confin'd,
Could give no Limits to his Vaster Minde.
Our Bounds inlargement was his latest toil,
Nor hath he left us pris'ners to this Isle;
8
And Part of Flanders hath receiv'd our Yoke.
From Civil-Broiles, he did us dis-engage,
Found Nobler Objects for our Martial Rage,
And with wise Conduct, to His Country shew'd
Their Antient Way of Conquering abroad.
Ungrateful then, if we no tears allow
To Him, who gave us Peace, and Empire too.
Princes, who fear'd Him, griev'd, concern'd to see
No pitch of Glory, from the Grave is free:
Nature herself, took notice of His Death,
And, sighing, swel'd the Sea, with such a Breath,
That, to remotest shoars, her Billows rowl'd,
Th'approaching Fate of her great Ruler told.
Found Nobler Objects for our Martial Rage,
And with wise Conduct, to His Country shew'd
Their Antient Way of Conquering abroad.
Ungrateful then, if we no tears allow
To Him, who gave us Peace, and Empire too.
Princes, who fear'd Him, griev'd, concern'd to see
No pitch of Glory, from the Grave is free:
Nature herself, took notice of His Death,
And, sighing, swel'd the Sea, with such a Breath,
That, to remotest shoars, her Billows rowl'd,
Th'approaching Fate of her great Ruler told.
| Miscellaneous works of George Wither | |