The Whole Works of William Browne of Tavistock ... Now first collected and edited, with a memoir of the poet, and notes, by W. Carew Hazlitt, of the Inner Temple |
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AN ELEGIE
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 | The Whole Works of William Browne |  |
325
AN ELEGIE
ON THE BEWAILED DEATH OF THE TRUELY-BELOVED AND MOST VERTUOUS HENRY, PRINCE OF WALES.
What time the world, clad in a mourning robe,
A stage made for a woefull tragedie,
When showres of teares from the celestiall globe,
Bewail'd the fate of sea-lov'd Brittanie;
When sighes as frequent were as various sights,
When Hope lay bed-rid, and all pleasures dying,
When Envie wept,
And Comfort slept,
When Cruelty itselfe sat almost crying;
Nought being heard but what the minde affrights:
When Autumn had disrob'd the Summer's pride,
Then England's honour, Europe's wonder dide.
A stage made for a woefull tragedie,
When showres of teares from the celestiall globe,
Bewail'd the fate of sea-lov'd Brittanie;
When sighes as frequent were as various sights,
When Hope lay bed-rid, and all pleasures dying,
When Envie wept,
And Comfort slept,
When Cruelty itselfe sat almost crying;
Nought being heard but what the minde affrights:
When Autumn had disrob'd the Summer's pride,
Then England's honour, Europe's wonder dide.
O saddest straine that ere the Muses sung!
A text of woe for griefe to comment on;
Teares, sighs and sobs, give passage to my tongue,
Or I shall spend you till the last is gone.
And then my hart, in flames of burning love,
Wanting his moisture, shall to cinders turne,
But first by me,
Bequeathed be,
To strew the place, wherein his sacred urne
Shall be enclos'd. This might in many move
The like effect: (who would not doe it?) when
No grave befits him, but the harts of men.
A text of woe for griefe to comment on;
Teares, sighs and sobs, give passage to my tongue,
Or I shall spend you till the last is gone.
And then my hart, in flames of burning love,
Wanting his moisture, shall to cinders turne,
But first by me,
Bequeathed be,
To strew the place, wherein his sacred urne
Shall be enclos'd. This might in many move
The like effect: (who would not doe it?) when
No grave befits him, but the harts of men.
326
The man whose masse of sorrowes have been such,
That, by their weight, laid on each severall part,
His fountaines are so drie, he but as much
As one poore drop hath left, to ease his hart:
Why should he keepe it? since the time doth call
That he n'ere better can bestow it in?
If so he feares,
That other teares
In greater number greatest prizes winne,
Know, none gives more then He who giveth all:
Then he which hath but one poore teare in store,
Oh let him spend that drop and weepe no more!
That, by their weight, laid on each severall part,
His fountaines are so drie, he but as much
As one poore drop hath left, to ease his hart:
Why should he keepe it? since the time doth call
That he n'ere better can bestow it in?
If so he feares,
That other teares
In greater number greatest prizes winne,
Know, none gives more then He who giveth all:
Then he which hath but one poore teare in store,
Oh let him spend that drop and weepe no more!
Why flowes not Hellicon beyond her strands?
Is Henrie dead, and doe the Muses sleepe?
Alas! I see each one amazed stands,
Shallow foords mutter, silent are the deepe:
Faine would they tell their griefes, but know not where.
All are so full, nought can augment their store.
Then how should they
Their griefes displey
To men so cloide they faine would heare no more.
Though blaming those whose plaints they cannot heare?
And with this wish their passions I allow,
May that muse never speake that's silent now!
Is Henrie dead, and doe the Muses sleepe?
Alas! I see each one amazed stands,
Shallow foords mutter, silent are the deepe:
Faine would they tell their griefes, but know not where.
All are so full, nought can augment their store.
Then how should they
Their griefes displey
To men so cloide they faine would heare no more.
Though blaming those whose plaints they cannot heare?
And with this wish their passions I allow,
May that muse never speake that's silent now!
Is Henrie dead? alas! and doe I live
To sing a scrich-owles note that he is dead?
If any one a fitter theame can give,
Come, give it now, or never to be read:
But let him see it doe of Horror taste,
Anguish, Distraction; could it rend in sunder
With fearefull grones
The fencelesse stones,
Yet should we hardly be inforc'd to wonder,
Our former griefes would so exceed their last:
Time cannot make our sorrowes ought compleater,
Nor add one griefe to make our mourning greater.
To sing a scrich-owles note that he is dead?
If any one a fitter theame can give,
Come, give it now, or never to be read:
But let him see it doe of Horror taste,
Anguish, Distraction; could it rend in sunder
With fearefull grones
The fencelesse stones,
327
Our former griefes would so exceed their last:
Time cannot make our sorrowes ought compleater,
Nor add one griefe to make our mourning greater.
England stood ne're engirt with waves till now,
Till now it held part with the Continent;
Aye me! some one, in pittie show me how
I might in dolefull numbers so lament,
That any one, which lov'd him, hated me,
Might dearly love me for lamenting him;
Alas my plaint
In such constraint
Breakes forth in rage, that thoughe my passions swimme,
Yet are they drowned ere they landed be.
Imperfect lines: oh happy were I, hurl'd
And cut from life as England from the world.
Till now it held part with the Continent;
Aye me! some one, in pittie show me how
I might in dolefull numbers so lament,
That any one, which lov'd him, hated me,
Might dearly love me for lamenting him;
Alas my plaint
In such constraint
Breakes forth in rage, that thoughe my passions swimme,
Yet are they drowned ere they landed be.
Imperfect lines: oh happy were I, hurl'd
And cut from life as England from the world.
O! happier had we beene, if we had beene
Never made happie by enjoying thee;
Where hath the glorious Eye of Heaven seene
A spectacle of greater miserie?
Time, turn thy course, and bring againe the spring!
Breake Nature's lawes! search the records of old!
If ought e're fell
Might paralel
Sad Albion's case: then note when I unfold
What seas of sorrow she is plunged in:
Where stormes of woe so mainly have beset her,
She hath no place for worse, nor hope for better.
Never made happie by enjoying thee;
Where hath the glorious Eye of Heaven seene
A spectacle of greater miserie?
Time, turn thy course, and bring againe the spring!
Breake Nature's lawes! search the records of old!
If ought e're fell
Might paralel
Sad Albion's case: then note when I unfold
What seas of sorrow she is plunged in:
Where stormes of woe so mainly have beset her,
She hath no place for worse, nor hope for better.
Brittaine was whilome knowne (by more then fame)
To be one of the Islands Fortunate:
What franticke man would give her now that name,
Lying so ruefull and disconsolate?
Hath not her watrie zone in murmuring,
Fil'd every shoare with eccho's of her crie?
Yes, Thetis raves,
And bids her waves
Bring all the nimphes within her Emperie,
To be assistant in her sorrowing.
See where they sadly sit on Isis' shore,
And rend their haires as they would joy no more.
To be one of the Islands Fortunate:
What franticke man would give her now that name,
Lying so ruefull and disconsolate?
328
Fil'd every shoare with eccho's of her crie?
Yes, Thetis raves,
And bids her waves
Bring all the nimphes within her Emperie,
To be assistant in her sorrowing.
See where they sadly sit on Isis' shore,
And rend their haires as they would joy no more.
| The Whole Works of William Browne | |