 | Songs and other poems (1668) |  |
On the Death of Mr. Alexander Brome, who dyed the 30th. of June, 1666.
Pardon
(dear Saint!) If (though so late) I mourn,
And drop some Tears o're thy neglected Urne;
For my sad Muse too long hath waiting been
To see some solemn, but yet pompous Scene.
Where those great wits, which thy Companions were,
Might like themselves Mourning for thee appear,
In Elegies worthy themselves and thee.
A noble Task for them, too great for Me.
I thought e're this t'have seen whole Volumes writ,
In such a style as might become thy wit,
Acquainting the dull world, not what thou wert,
How much thou hadst Improv'd Poetick Art;
For that thy works (beyond Amendment) shew,
Ages to come, as well as he, will know
By them thy Lofty, yet familiar strain,
So highly learned, yet so humbly plain;
But how much thou wert by the Muses lov'd,
How much thy Death their wits and passions mov'd,
That unborn Poets might in times to come,
See how belov'd, and how bewail'd was Brome.
And drop some Tears o're thy neglected Urne;
For my sad Muse too long hath waiting been
To see some solemn, but yet pompous Scene.
Where those great wits, which thy Companions were,
Might like themselves Mourning for thee appear,
In Elegies worthy themselves and thee.
A noble Task for them, too great for Me.
I thought e're this t'have seen whole Volumes writ,
In such a style as might become thy wit,
Acquainting the dull world, not what thou wert,
How much thou hadst Improv'd Poetick Art;
For that thy works (beyond Amendment) shew,
Ages to come, as well as he, will know
By them thy Lofty, yet familiar strain,
So highly learned, yet so humbly plain;
But how much thou wert by the Muses lov'd,
How much thy Death their wits and passions mov'd,
That unborn Poets might in times to come,
See how belov'd, and how bewail'd was Brome.
But finding none of these that could to do
Those friendly Rites to thee so justly due
My Muse impatient grows by their delay,
And Can't but must thus her last duty pay.
Which as she can, not would, she must express
Adores thy Tomb, but can't adorn thy Hearse.
Those friendly Rites to thee so justly due
My Muse impatient grows by their delay,
And Can't but must thus her last duty pay.
Which as she can, not would, she must express
Adores thy Tomb, but can't adorn thy Hearse.
Rich. Newcourt.
| Songs and other poems (1668) | |