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Carolina

or, Loyal Poems. By Tho. Shipman

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The Early SPRING.

Upon the immature Death of my honoured Friend Theophilus Parkyns, Esq;

1669.
To lay this precious Dust, which the rough hours
Of March did cause, April now pours
It self away in Showers:
Such Drops produce a Spring,
And thus enable us to bring
These flow'rs, alas! which on his Herse we fling.

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The Muses Gardens cannot yield supplies;
If we his worth should justly prize,
Eden would scarce suffice:
Nor could Arabia yield
From out her parcht and spicy Field,
Odours and Gums enow his Pile to build.
Altho this Fun'ral-charge may prove too deep
For any Poet's brains to keep;
Yet we, alas, can weep!
This Deluge of our Eyes
May help to make his Coffin rise,
Like Noah's Ark, and raise it to the Skies.
When we have wept all this, we may have fears,
The Briny Ocean of our tears
Not half enough appears:
For judge by what we lost,
(Out Country's nay our Nation's boast)
If tears, or words can give sufficient cost.
How beautiful each look, each line of's Face?
Each limb, each motion had a grace;
Nature in him did place
What either Sex thinks rare;
Tall, and yet lovely; strong yet fair;
Venus and Mars in him compounded were.
Tho Nature to his Body was so kind;
Yet not content, he sought to find
The beauties of the Mind,

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At all perfections vies;
Charming his Looks as Ladies Eyes;
Bold as young Heroes, as old Doctors, wise.
His powr'ful Wit had such an Empire gain'd;
It every Subject could command,
And all its Foes withstand.
Fro' th' Schools it first did come;
As conq'ring Cæsar did from Rome,
Till strong enough to rule its native home.
He who had gone so far, might well have staid;
But like a man that thrives o'th' Trade,
He further progress made:
Like Rich men he sought more;
Tho he had treasures heap'd in store,
Yet free from pride, he thought himself but poor.
Death did, alas, all these fair hopes betray;
As Blossoms in a Frosty day,
Drop from a Tree in May.
His Autumn was not slow;
And yet surpriz'd by Winter so,
His fruit lyes bury'd now in Sheets of Snow.
Tho whilst alive we scarcely saw him right;
His worth will now come more in sight:
As Stars shine most by night.
Why then should foolish I,
To raise his fame thus vainly try,
When things eternal can themselves supply?