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Poems

By Thomas Philipott

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An Elegie on Robert Earle of Caernarvon, slain at the battell of Newberie.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

An Elegie on Robert Earle of Caernarvon, slain at the battell of Newberie.

Whoever will unsluce his eyes, and lave
A streame of pious teares out on this Grave,
Sure, cannot think those Obsequies mis-spent,
He shall lay out upon this Monument:
For, from the stone thus softened by his Eyes,
So many sprigs of Lawrell shall arise,
That Passengers shall think this tomb the Cell,
Where unplum'd victorie did ever dwell.
For even she her selfe, when Dormer died,
Wounded through him, lay bleeding by his side;
But he is dead without a sigh or groane,
Vented by the worlds Genius, to bemoane
His sad decease? for sure, his losse should be
Sigh'd out to us, in no lesse Elegie.
Do not the gratefull Elements conspire
To pay some tribute back for that brave fire
Which warm'd his bosome? and does now enshrine
It selfe in theirs, which sure will so refine
Their dull and sluggish matter, that 'twill be
Improv'd agen to its first puritie;
If from that foame each wrinkled billow strowes
On the embroider'd shore a Venus rose,

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No lesse, sure, then a Mars or Hermes must
Rise from each graine of his unblemisht dust,
If every Roman Victor could allow
Each act of his a Statue, and endow
His name with Trophies, that it nere might rust,
Or be obscurely buried in his dust:
We must impoverish each Corinthian Mine,
And rob the Parian Quarries, to enshrine
His name in Marble, for his actions will
Each Page in times successive Annalls fill.
What Cataracts of shot, what stormes of lead
Were oft let loose on his unshaken head?
That those which view'd him from a farre, began
Much to suspect they saw a Leaden man:
But when they saw him with such speed invade
And breake the bodie of a Troop, it made
Them change that Faith, and think that he had been
Converted to some winged Cherubin;
Or else so briefe and sudden was his Flight,
Transform'd into a nimble beame of Light.
But shall that flame which did so clearly burn
Within his Brest, lye rak'd up in his Vrn,
Vntill the last dayes generall Fire transmit
A second light to re-enkindle it?
No sure, his tomb cannot so check that Flame,
But 'twill breake forth to shine about his name,
Or in some bright and shaggie Comet rise,
To light a toarch at his owne Obsequies.