Men-Miracles With other Poemes. By M. LL. St [i.e.Martin Lluelyn] |
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Elegie. On the death of Sir John Smith Standard Bearer to His Majesty.
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120
Elegie. On the death of Sir John Smith Standard Bearer to His Majesty.
As Loadstones beckning steele on either hand,
Checke and compell its motion to a stand,
That while they both entice, and both dispute,
It knowes not where to fixe its first salute,
But waves, and renders homage unto both,
Would faine joine here, but to leave that is loath;
So we, amaz'd, by Rayes and lustre throwne,
From Predecessours deeds, and from thine owne,
Distract our Wonder, and must doubtfull be,
To seate it in thy Ancestours, or Thee.
Checke and compell its motion to a stand,
That while they both entice, and both dispute,
It knowes not where to fixe its first salute,
But waves, and renders homage unto both,
Would faine joine here, but to leave that is loath;
So we, amaz'd, by Rayes and lustre throwne,
From Predecessours deeds, and from thine owne,
Distract our Wonder, and must doubtfull be,
To seate it in thy Ancestours, or Thee.
First, let our Muse her wandring verse command,
To follow him that trac't the Holy-Land:
In such a faire pursuite we can engage
Our Poem, to attempt a Pilgrimage:
While we like weary Hermits coming there,
Shall find no Wonder 'bove thy Ancestour.
The Tragicke Mount, and the Divided shrine,
Once fam'd by their owne Glories, now by thine.
The Solemne Tombe, though its Remaines were gone,
May be a Monument from Carington,
To whose fam'd courage when their Rites decay,
Good Pilgrims Tributary wonder pay.
In his stout Arme the Conquering Standard stood,
Which tooke fresh Crimson from the Pagans bloud.
Cyprus subdu'd did now his Trafficke stand,
And was the Purchase of the Holy-land.
Then was Jerusalem entaild to th' Crowne,
As it had beene but some Adjacent Towne.
That from so quicke a victory, we may
Aske in what part of England Sion lay.
The Royall Banner dreadfull was become
By him abroad, as now by Thee at home;
And thou in these like Terrours didst beget,
That doe erect a nearer Mahomet,
To follow him that trac't the Holy-Land:
In such a faire pursuite we can engage
Our Poem, to attempt a Pilgrimage:
While we like weary Hermits coming there,
Shall find no Wonder 'bove thy Ancestour.
The Tragicke Mount, and the Divided shrine,
Once fam'd by their owne Glories, now by thine.
The Solemne Tombe, though its Remaines were gone,
May be a Monument from Carington,
To whose fam'd courage when their Rites decay,
Good Pilgrims Tributary wonder pay.
121
Which tooke fresh Crimson from the Pagans bloud.
Cyprus subdu'd did now his Trafficke stand,
And was the Purchase of the Holy-land.
Then was Jerusalem entaild to th' Crowne,
As it had beene but some Adjacent Towne.
That from so quicke a victory, we may
Aske in what part of England Sion lay.
The Royall Banner dreadfull was become
By him abroad, as now by Thee at home;
And thou in these like Terrours didst beget,
That doe erect a nearer Mahomet,
“Two Pagan Nations tremble at your workes,
“The Turkish Saracens, and the English Turkes.
Next to that Hero, we must ranke his Fame,
That was to loose his Loyalty or Name:
That was compell'd, since here it could not stand,
To ship his virtue o're to another Land.
Who in his Names disguise did still appeare,
Till his disguise became his common weare.
Which so deriv'd to thee an equall claime,
Both to his constant Loyalty & Name.
Long could our Poem in thy story ly,
And turne the Chronicle to Elegy.
Till those that nicely in our mourning looke,
Find we weepe onely Speed, or th' Heralds Booke.
But these weake Annals of thy Fame afford,
Thou wrot'st the fairest Story with thy Sword.
“The Turkish Saracens, and the English Turkes.
Next to that Hero, we must ranke his Fame,
That was to loose his Loyalty or Name:
That was compell'd, since here it could not stand,
To ship his virtue o're to another Land.
Who in his Names disguise did still appeare,
Till his disguise became his common weare.
Which so deriv'd to thee an equall claime,
Both to his constant Loyalty & Name.
Long could our Poem in thy story ly,
And turne the Chronicle to Elegy.
Till those that nicely in our mourning looke,
Find we weepe onely Speed, or th' Heralds Booke.
122
Thou wrot'st the fairest Story with thy Sword.
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