Poems By Thomas Philipott |
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On the death of Sir Simon Harcourt, slain at the taking in of Carigs-Main Castle in Ireland.
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 | Poems |  |
On the death of Sir Simon Harcourt, slain at the taking in of Carigs-Main Castle in Ireland.
May that pure flame which heated Harcourts brest,Break from the gloomy confines of that Chest
VVhich circumscribes his hallow'd dust, and sink
Like a spent Meteor downe into my ink;
That that dull juice its heat may so refine,
Each drop of it may prove like that, divine,
With which each verse of mine embalm'd shall be,
And like his fame last to Eternitie;
At common Funeralls each vulgar quill
Into some broken rapture can distill,
And with the watry tribute of the eye
Dissolve into some easie Elegie:
Should we not then pay to this honour'd Herse
Our griefs drest up in more refined Verse,
And mix with it such a large streame of brine,
It might these precious Reliques even enshrine?
The gratefull wind would from his ashes sweep
Such clouds of dust, that if we could not weep,
'Twould throw them thence into our barren eyes,
And (though unwilling) force some tears to rise:
I am no Laureat, nor does any Bay
Surround my Temples, if it did, Il'd lay
That wreath (brave Harcourt) on thy Tomb, that wee
At once might crowne thy victorie, and thee.
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Is worne a teare, sorrowes best Liverie;
In which I'le steep each verse, that so their brine
May distribute some salt to everie line:
And when my barren and exhausted eyes
Grow bankrupt in their watry Obsequies,
And spend their stock too soon, those stars which shin'd
To light thee into th' world, and did unwind
The Fate of thy great actions, sure will turne
To tears, and drop in gelly on thy Vrne:
Though thus two fountaines flow from either eye,
T'embalme thy dust, my Phancy yet is dry:
But pardon me, that on thy hallow'd tomb
I've stuck no Epitaph, which might become
An Index to past ages, and display
To times to come, how (through that purple sea
Which from thy wounds in such a deluge ran)
Thy soule passed o're to th'Land of Canaan,
White with her innocence, alas no stone
Would serve to beare the sad Inscription;
For even that Marble that is put in trust.
To be the wardrobe for thy weeds of dust,
Will to deplore so great a losse (my fears
Tell me) by instinct too melt into tears.
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