University of Virginia Library


197

xxviii. On the death of a nobleman in Scotland, buried at Aithen.

Aithen, thy Pearly Coronet let fall;
Clad in sad Robes, upon thy Temples set,
The weeping Cypresse, or the sable Jet.
Mourne this thy Nurslings losse, a losse which all
Apollos quire bemoanes, which many yeares
Cannot repaire, nor Influence of Spheares.
Ah! when shalt thou find Shepheard like to him,
Who made thy Bankes more famous by his worth,
Then all those Gems thy Rocks and Streams send forth?
His splendor others Glow-worm light did dim,
Sprung of an ancient and a vertuous Race,
He Vertue more than many did embrace.
He fram'd to mildnesse thy halfe-barbarous swaines,
The Good-mans refuge, of the bad the fright,
Unparaleld in friendship, worlds Delight,
For Hospitality along thy Plaines
Far-fam'd, a Patron, and a Patterne faire,
Of Piety, the Muses chiefe repaire.
Most debonaire, in Courtesie supreame,
Lov'd of the meane, and honour'd by the Great,
Ne're dasht by Fortune, nor cast down by Fate,
To present, and to after Times a Theame.
Aithen, thy Teares poure on this silent Grave,
And drop them in thy Alabaster cave,
And Niobes Imagery become;
And when thou hast distilled here a Tombe,
Enchace in it thy Pearls, and let it beare,
Aithens best Gem and honour shrin'd lies here.