The Tvvo Famous Pitcht Battels of Lypsich, and Lutzen wherein the ever-renowned Prince Gustavus the Great lived and died a Conquerour: with an Elegie upon his untimely death, composed in Heroick Verse. By John Russell |
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To my Friend Master
Russell,
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 | The Tvvo Famous Pitcht Battels of Lypsich, and Lutzen |  |
To my Friend Master Russell,
upon this ensuing Poem of the King of Swedens Battels.
'Twas a Proud Greek, whose vast AmbitionPin'd for new Worlds, who vow'd his Counterfeit
Should be pourtraid on pain of death by none,
But best Apelles. Pride surnam'd him Great.
And 'twas a prouder Tuscan, misemployd
His dying thoughts about his Elegie;
Charging his Marble might be rather void,
Then not adorn'd by Prince of Poetrie.
Thus did not Sweden taint his greatnesse: He
Suffers all Prose, or Verse. Nor doth his Shade
Disturb, but help the Artist. Deitie
Accepts an offring from the meanest trade.
Is then (O Muses) more authenticall.
Nor shall't be Heresie in verse to claim
Aid from live Names, and still Imperiall.
He shall preserve thy Papers, and vent more
Then an enlarg'd Edition. His Name
Shall be thy Title too, and fill the doore
Of the rich Shop it lies in; like the Frame
Of some rare Frontispice, with neat device
Tying unto it the Spectatours eyes.
So both in equall tye are excellent;
Thy Book's His Elegie, He its Monument.
What loose Prose could not pay to Swedens Herse,
Thou hast discharg'd in thy Heroick Verse,
Th' Intelligencers Feet, on which he'l runne
Now round the world, like a surveying Sunne.
'Twas greater art to chuse thy Theme, then write
Some Poems. But to pen it in despite
Of others grief, or silence, argues Love
Great as thy Art. And if the People prove
Thy hand hath rudely op't a publick wound
Newly clos'd up; the Magistrate's not bound
(As Athens mulcted Phrenicus) to be
Their Censor, and to fine thy Historie.
No: Let us know, our Guilt that Matchlesse Man,
Whose Dirge thou sing'st, hath murdred. Nay, I can,
And dare tell how too: 'Twas the fond excesse
Of our big thoughts decreas'd his Happinesse;
Whose modest Soul we vext with restlesse crie
Of love pretended, Proud Idolatrie.
His purer Breast divin'd asmuch, while we
Mad men still tempted him with Prophesie.
Thou hast discharg'd in thy Heroick Verse,
Th' Intelligencers Feet, on which he'l runne
Now round the world, like a surveying Sunne.
'Twas greater art to chuse thy Theme, then write
Some Poems. But to pen it in despite
Of others grief, or silence, argues Love
Great as thy Art. And if the People prove
Thy hand hath rudely op't a publick wound
Newly clos'd up; the Magistrate's not bound
(As Athens mulcted Phrenicus) to be
Their Censor, and to fine thy Historie.
No: Let us know, our Guilt that Matchlesse Man,
Whose Dirge thou sing'st, hath murdred. Nay, I can,
And dare tell how too: 'Twas the fond excesse
Of our big thoughts decreas'd his Happinesse;
Whose modest Soul we vext with restlesse crie
Of love pretended, Proud Idolatrie.
Mad men still tempted him with Prophesie.
Oh! had this Frenzie rested in the heart
Onely of us the People, little Art
Might frame a Plea. But our great Rabbins too,
(Oh Learning, what huge mischiefs mayst thou do,
Seduc'd by Pride and Flatt'rie!) nay, those Brains
That wear the Sacred Cappe, through all their veins
Descri'd infected bloud, whose tainted streams
Danger'd the Nations, whil'st noisome steams
Exhal'd as high as Heav'n. That starrie Sphere,
Stranger to vapours, could not now be cleare.
Egypt examin'd Starres, and father'd lies
On their pure Substances: all Mysteries
Are pri'd into, and stretcht. The Chiliast
Takes sev'rall shapes; now poses us in vast
Contemplative just nothings, and then slips
Into a Cassock, picks th' Apocalyps,
And showes us Wonders, which poore I dare swear
His fleering heart well knew were never there.
The unclaspt Book was read, the Signes unseal'd,
The Trumpets, Phials, and the Beast reveal'd:
The Pope and Cesar slain outright, and all
By GUSTAVE, and by Heav'n. This was his fall.
The Sinne was ours; the troubled Vertue his.
So Evil hasted Goodnesse to her blisse.
Now th' An'grams blush: and had not Pirrhus art
Excus'd the letter, when the Authours heart
Glow'd with a lie; by this time Levi had,
Like Iss'chars asse, coucht under's burden, glad,
Though strong, to be releas'd. Let this suffice,
We all confesse we slew him, and our eyes
Shall restifie our sorrows. Lypsich may,
And Lutzen tell his Life some half the way:
What we confesse, tells all; perfects the Storie
More then the Annals of his living Glorie.
Oh! this Confession well-penn'd would be
His Chronicle, his Tombe, his Elegie.
Onely of us the People, little Art
Might frame a Plea. But our great Rabbins too,
(Oh Learning, what huge mischiefs mayst thou do,
Seduc'd by Pride and Flatt'rie!) nay, those Brains
That wear the Sacred Cappe, through all their veins
Descri'd infected bloud, whose tainted streams
Danger'd the Nations, whil'st noisome steams
Exhal'd as high as Heav'n. That starrie Sphere,
Stranger to vapours, could not now be cleare.
Egypt examin'd Starres, and father'd lies
On their pure Substances: all Mysteries
Are pri'd into, and stretcht. The Chiliast
Takes sev'rall shapes; now poses us in vast
Contemplative just nothings, and then slips
Into a Cassock, picks th' Apocalyps,
And showes us Wonders, which poore I dare swear
His fleering heart well knew were never there.
The unclaspt Book was read, the Signes unseal'd,
The Trumpets, Phials, and the Beast reveal'd:
The Pope and Cesar slain outright, and all
By GUSTAVE, and by Heav'n. This was his fall.
The Sinne was ours; the troubled Vertue his.
So Evil hasted Goodnesse to her blisse.
Now th' An'grams blush: and had not Pirrhus art
Excus'd the letter, when the Authours heart
Glow'd with a lie; by this time Levi had,
Like Iss'chars asse, coucht under's burden, glad,
Though strong, to be releas'd. Let this suffice,
We all confesse we slew him, and our eyes
And Lutzen tell his Life some half the way:
What we confesse, tells all; perfects the Storie
More then the Annals of his living Glorie.
Oh! this Confession well-penn'd would be
His Chronicle, his Tombe, his Elegie.
T. Riley, Fellow of Trin. Coll.
| The Tvvo Famous Pitcht Battels of Lypsich, and Lutzen | |