University of Virginia Library

---

67

AN ELEGIE UPON THE IMMATURE AND MUCH LAMENTED DEATH OF that most Christian Souldier and Renowned Prince, GVSTAVVS THE GREAT, King of Swethes, Goths, and Vandals; &c.

---

69

What strange sad silence doth the world astound?
Why doth not Fames still echoing trumpet sound?
She's grown forgetfull, or else hoarse, I fear,
That we no more victorious sounds can heare.
'Twas but of late, when as the thundring noise
Of doubled triumphs, conquests, and applause
Fill'd our Horizon, and the aire did ring
With shouts of praise to Sweds victorious King.
Was this a dream and fanci'd apparition,
And now is vanisht like a fleeting vision?
Could all the world be thus deluded? No:
'Twas surely reall, and no feigned show.
Those bloudie battels and those dismall fights
We lately heard, were not like vap'rie sights,
Compos'd of airie breath, which to the eye
Two dreadfull Armies grappling do descrie.
These, these were reall; and thy direfull steel
(Victorious Prince) shall after-ages feel:

---

70

And those deep wounds, which in thy furious ire
Thou didst inflict by force of thundring fire,
Shall leave wide scarres upon the Germane land,
Which shall for ever to their terrour stand.
This thou hast done alreadie, and amaz'd
Remotest kingdomes, where thy deeds are blaz'd.
But on a sudden, loe! thou dost appeare
To stop in middle of thy full career:
All tongues are silent, and our greedie eares
Heare nothing now but terrours, doubts, and fears.
Or Fame her self is dead; or he that gave
Life unto Fame, is sunk into his grave.
Fame cannot die. Oh! can he die, whose look
So many thousands dead at once hath strook?
What mortall durst give him a wound, whose eye
Hath made grimme Death to start and turn awrie?
Sure he's not dead: Swethland for grief would roar,
And make their grones heard to our English shore,
If he were dead, whom they have priz'd more deare
Then their own proper lives, and did not fear
To runne like Lions, at their Princes words, Upon!
Upon the mouthes of Cannons, points of Swords.
He's dead, I fear: For can he living be,
And we no spoils nor further conquests see?
Can he be living, and not heard to thunder,
To batter cities, trample kingdomes under;
Whose very soul was fire Æthereall pure,
Such as no mortall bodies can endure?

---

71

His breath was direfull smoke, and from his hands
Flew show'rs of iron balls, that quell'd whole lands.
Can that Sulphurious dust, more quick then winde,
Once toucht with flame, in prison be combin'd?
Not steel, nor iron, nor the hardest brasse
Can stay its furie for the shortest space.
Though mightie mountains prest this living flame,
Yet would it tear them, and an entrance frame,
His Hellish breath and dismall noise to vent;
Nor would it cease, till all its furie's spent.
Thus hath it been with Europes Northern Starre,
And Sweds Victorious Prince, made all for warre:
Whose Spirit, toucht with fire from heav'n, did blaze
Like to some Comet, sent for to amaze
And scourge us mortall wights; whose direfull breath
Doth shoot down vengeance, terrours, plagues, & death.
Had Turk, and Tartar, and the Triple Crown
That awes the Christian world, and treadeth down
Monarchs as slaves, themselves in one combin'd;
This Heav'n-sent Furie had, like lightning winde,
Shot through them all; and, like to scatt'red corn,
Their feeble squadrons had been rent and torn:
Till his Celestiall vigour were quite spent,
No Warres, no Ruines could his ire content.
But now his date is out, and his Commission
Is stopt from heav'n with a new Prohibition.
He's dead. Oh bitter word, enough to make
Stones for to weep, and iron hearts to ake!

---

72

So soon? alas! in so unwisht an houre
Is all our joy quell'd by some secret power?
Why do not we then breathe such dolefull grones,
And poure such melting tears, as should hard stones
Dissolve into salt drops; that they and we
Might so expresse one mournfull Elegie?
What! are we spent and drie? I see no teares;
I heare no grones; no wailings pierce my eares.
Oh pardon me! I fear my faltring tongue,
Distract with troubled sorrow, doth you wrong.
'Tis slender grief that doth by weeping vent;
And 'tis not much that can by tears be spent.
But this, this sorrow, like a mortall wound,
Strikes deep, and doth our senses quite astound;
Lies like a lump of lead or heavie weight
Upon our heart, and pincheth it so strait,
That neither sigh nor grone can issue thence;
But lies as dead, and quite berest of sense.
Since then 'tis so we cannot weep, let's borrow
From others help, so to expresse our sorrow.
Ye glistring lamps above, ye Northern starres,
That roll about the Pole your frozen Carres;
In Thetis waves plunge over head and eares,
That ye may have your fill of brinish teares,
And by sad influence make the heav'ns to lowre,
And to the earth send down a weeping showre;
But chiefly on that place, that cursed ground,
Where Adolph first receiv'd his mortall wound.

---

73

Let never grasse nor verdant herb grow there;
Nor any tree, nor ground it self appeare.
Let it be all a lake, whose face may look
Just like the colour of th' Infernall brook;
Like pitchie Styx, or black-stream'd Acheron;
Or like Cocytus, or dark Phlegethon:
That it may seem to all a mourning vail,
That doth the surface of that ground empale.
And let its murm'ring waves make such a noise,
As may expresse to us the dolefull voice
Of some that crie, that roar, that shriek, that grone;
Of some that mourn, that weep, that wail, that mone:
That after-ages to their children may
Tell this sad storie, when they passe that way;
These souls do mourn for Swethlands conqu'ring King:
But these, whose clamours fearfully do ring,
Are such as in this place di'd by his power,
And thus expresse their horrour to this houre.