The poems of George Daniel ... From the original mss. in the British Museum: Hitherto unprinted. Edited, with introduction, notes, and illustrations, portrait, &c. By the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart: In four volumes |
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 | The poems of George Daniel |  |
195
To the Tombe of Thomas Earl of Strafford.
Reader, ere you pass this Herse,
Looke vpon our Shame. Our wonder,
Worthy all your Tears,
Lyes with liveing honours, vnder
This proud Marble; and my verse
But anticipat's the Thunder
Of a bolder Fame, which might
Have overcome a feeble Spright.
Looke vpon our Shame. Our wonder,
Worthy all your Tears,
Lyes with liveing honours, vnder
This proud Marble; and my verse
But anticipat's the Thunder
Of a bolder Fame, which might
Have overcome a feeble Spright.
This, This was Hee, who knew aright
To gvide the high Affaires of State;
Whose prudent Counsells were ye Light
Of Monarchy. Our Monarch's Fate
Was twist in his. Clear Pens might write
Wonders in Storie; but too Late:
Qvills are prevented; and the Sword
Writes Blood, for Inke; & wound, for word.
To gvide the high Affaires of State;
Whose prudent Counsells were ye Light
Of Monarchy. Our Monarch's Fate
Was twist in his. Clear Pens might write
Wonders in Storie; but too Late:
Qvills are prevented; and the Sword
Writes Blood, for Inke; & wound, for word.
Vnhappie Age, Vnhappie Ile;
Without a Genius, in his fall;
Whose Third made onlie both yours smile,
And was the liveing Fount of All:
If Genij be be? (as wee revile
Antiquity, if wee should call
It into Doubt) the greatest Flame
Expired in Him;—And to his Name
Without a Genius, in his fall;
196
And was the liveing Fount of All:
If Genij be be? (as wee revile
Antiquity, if wee should call
It into Doubt) the greatest Flame
Expired in Him;—And to his Name
Vnder Devotions, wee may pay
Our best Performances, and place
His, as the cheif State-Martir's Day,
Of all our Rubricke. Hee who was
The Arch-Collossus, (if I may
Soe call him) suffers in disgrace,
And falls to rubbish, by the rude
Rage of a barbarous Multitude.
Our best Performances, and place
His, as the cheif State-Martir's Day,
Of all our Rubricke. Hee who was
The Arch-Collossus, (if I may
Soe call him) suffers in disgrace,
And falls to rubbish, by the rude
Rage of a barbarous Multitude.
Let the Westerne Iland tell
To her Maister, if he did
More then Iust, or less then well.
Shee knew much; yet I dare bid
Her, (leaving Malice & that Hell,
Vulgar Clamour) boldly read
All his Storie, that She knew
And fright Envie from her heiw.
To her Maister, if he did
More then Iust, or less then well.
Shee knew much; yet I dare bid
Her, (leaving Malice & that Hell,
Vulgar Clamour) boldly read
All his Storie, that She knew
And fright Envie from her heiw.
Make her blush; or would you hear
It better? Aske the King awhile,
Who made the haughtie Scotts to feare?
Who Stood ye Spirit of his Ile?
Whisper Strafford in his Eare;
Vrge it boldly, and revile
The Nation; for in him they lost
All their honour, all their boast.
It better? Aske the King awhile,
Who made the haughtie Scotts to feare?
197
Whisper Strafford in his Eare;
Vrge it boldly, and revile
The Nation; for in him they lost
All their honour, all their boast.
Much could I more: enough to bring
An invndation of Tears.
Stay Readers, I am full; goe wring
Your hands vpon Another herse;
His noble Ashes need noe thing
But his owne blood; enough to peirce
The Clouds, drawne vp by Iustice Sun,
A Minant Exhalation.
An invndation of Tears.
Stay Readers, I am full; goe wring
Your hands vpon Another herse;
His noble Ashes need noe thing
But his owne blood; enough to peirce
The Clouds, drawne vp by Iustice Sun,
A Minant Exhalation.
And it will fall, vpon all those
Who lick'd it warme wth greedie gust;
Like Sulphur Shewers; their overthrowes
Shall be more terrible. How Iust
Is heaven at length! Strafford repose,
Happie in thy dire Fate; which must
Stand, to Ennoble all thy Storie;
Thy Nation's Greife; thy Nation's Glorie.
Who lick'd it warme wth greedie gust;
Like Sulphur Shewers; their overthrowes
Shall be more terrible. How Iust
Is heaven at length! Strafford repose,
Happie in thy dire Fate; which must
Stand, to Ennoble all thy Storie;
Thy Nation's Greife; thy Nation's Glorie.
| The poems of George Daniel | |