 | Poems on Affairs of State |  |
A Pindarick Ode, occasioned by the Death of the late Lord Chief Justice Treby, 1701.
I.
As Indians, when a valu'd Hero dies,Prepare no cheap, no common Obsequies,
But costly Piles the high-priz'd Body burn;
With Gums they load the odoriferous Urn,
And Fumes of Spices waft him to the Skies:
So we presume not to attend thy Death
With common or unhallow'd Breath;
But—
With Voice of Anthems and of Airs Divine
We 'dorn thy Hearse and consecrate thy Shrine.
Nobler than Incense or aspiring Flame,
Such as for Gods Poetick Fancies frame.
II.
VVhy did we not with fervent Raptures pray,And importune the Heavens for his stay?
Alas! if Prayers could have brib'd the Skies,
So moving were his own, his own cou'd well suffice:
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And robs us of our Joys t'increase its own:
Or else the weight of State and Care
Was much too heavy for a Saint to bear:
Or with the Joys above divinely fir'd,
Thinking it goodly to be there,
He thought he saw, and he expir'd.
When Heaven so much Pains had shewn
To stamp the Favorite for her own,
Why was it slow to save
So fine a Purchase from the Grave?
But this is sacred and behind the Vale,
Whiles we in piteous Mourning left,
Of all but Sighs and Murmurings bereft,
Grow wild with Providence, and rail
That so much Worth should be
Subject alike to common Destiny.
III.
Joy of it self bespeaks a wondrous Grace,When its gay Spirits spread and wanton in the Face:
But Grief and sullen Woe
Benumb the Spirits that would in Numbers flow;
The Soul then bends beneath its Care,
As if 'twere ty'd to Sorrow and Despair:
To praise him right her strains should be
As far above the Clouds as he.
Who can the Loss relentless hear,
When even Malice has allow'd a Tear?
If Envy's silent and is piteous grown,
In what sad shape must Love and Duty moan?
And tho in silence they lament,
Yet Truth is ever Eloquent;
The deepest Sighs may burst, and Tears may dry,
And like or Time or Chance may raise
The fairest Characters of Praise:
But hearty Sorrow scarce can die,
And is as lasting as his Monument.
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IV.
Some grow illustrious thro a prosperous state;But Treby's Sufferings help'd to make him great,
For wounded Vertue shines with brightest Light,
As Diamonds till cut are never bright.
Firm and unmov'd he did like Isthmus stand,
Still beating back the Waves that beat upon the Land.
When Rome laid out a Picture justly Great,
The Hero's painted strugling with his Fate;
As if those various Trials were design'd,
There where they cou'd not shock, to raise the Mind:
So in those Pieces that are finely made,
We find the Beauty heightn'd by the Shade.
The Indians torture all the Royal Race,
And he that suffers best obtains the Place;
None to the Helm of Government can come,
Unless by Crosses ripen'd for a Throne.
Brave Souls, like Aristotle's Stars,
Backt with their Deities above,
Have each a Genius to controul
The wild Excentricks of the Soul;
And tho the Space wherein they move
Be great, it's regular:
Treby could not move
Beyond the Bounds of Justice and of State;
His Action's still heroically great,
Because his Center was above.
V.
Let single Vertues meaner Souls adorn,But Treby equally with all was born.
As the fam'd Roman Pantheon did enshrine
Within it self whatever was Divine;
Great without Pride, and without Wrinkles wise,
Obliging without Art, and just without Disguise,
Wise in his Counsels, humble in Discourse,
Good without Noise, and pleasant without Force,
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Regarded Vertue and forgot his Foe;
So much his Goodness with the Law did strive,
What Justice would have punish'd Mercy did forgive.
So full of Knowledg here below,
He only could receive addition now.
And thy great new-flown Soul so swift,
These Realms of Frailty when departing left,
That as the method is of Angels here,
You only seem to disappear;
And since like them you have your Character,
And of Perfections as great a share,
Not only faultless; but good to that excess,
You'l scarce admit a change when you'r refin'd for Bliss.
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