University of Virginia Library

Upon a Lady at York dying in Child-Birth.

And, but Her fate was such, think ye that she
Could fall beneath these flags of Victory.
Not possible, but, ah! this Lilly-bed,
Was ashy Death mounted on his pale steed;
That Prince of terrors from the Sisters sent
To rifle and take down this silver Tent.
And, what was that to us, if Heaven thought meet,
That she should lay in, in Her Winding sheet?
Or that Her Son thus unaccustom'd wise,
Should Phœnix like from Her own ashes rise.
Or, that his Spring must needs her Autumn be,
And we have but a Pippin for a Tree?
All still to love, and providence impūte,
That labour is not lost that's crown'd with Fruit.
Nay, let us rather Heavens just praise proclaim,
That from a shadow such a substance came.
Not but her Years so fresh, so full of bloom,
Among the living might have still found room.
But that her soul which nought, but, Heaven contents,
Became too volatile for its Elements.
Which, ('cause their centres, yet, contrary are)
Subsided, and became this falling Star.
Left here as pledge, till Earth shall kiss the Skies,
And Dust in glory to its Consort rise.
Meanwhile thus White, thus all in brydal State,
To Her bright Spouse ascends Heaven's Candidate.
How then is Fate unkind? Death comes but right,
'Tis sickle-season when the Fields are white.
Yea, even her Bed did so all-white appear,
As if her innocence would still live there.
Thus Heaven, and Earth conspire a glorious day,
When Soul and Body go the milky way.