Poems or, A Miscellany of Sonnets, Satyrs, Drollery, Panegyricks, Elegies, &c. At the Instance, and Request of Several Friends, Times, and Occasions, Composed; and now at their command Collected, and Committed to the Press. By the Author, M. Stevenson |
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An Elegy Perpetuated to the Memory of Henry Terne, Esq; Captain of the Triumph.
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An Elegy Perpetuated to the Memory of Henry Terne, Esq; Captain of the Triumph.
Thus fell he at hard fates command,
Yet like himself with Sword in hand.
What pitty 'twas he could not git
So neer, as to make use of it.
To try it out with manly strife
Of Sword! He then had sold his life.
So dear a bargain to the Dutch,
They ne'er had wisht another such;
He had so handy-grip'd his foe,
But Bullets no distinction know.
For Canons are a like disease,
To Clineas, and to Pyrocles.
Yet like himself with Sword in hand.
What pitty 'twas he could not git
So neer, as to make use of it.
To try it out with manly strife
Of Sword! He then had sold his life.
So dear a bargain to the Dutch,
They ne'er had wisht another such;
He had so handy-grip'd his foe,
But Bullets no distinction know.
For Canons are a like disease,
To Clineas, and to Pyrocles.
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Four Spanish ships at once he fought,
And from 'um all the Garland brought.
But afterwards, (pitty say I)
Where Cowards live, the Valiant dye:
This Son of Honour laid his head,
With honour, down on Honour's Bed.
And certainly he wants no room,
That has the Ocean for his Tomb.
Whom now in scorn of future harmes,
The Seas embrace with out-stretcht Armes.
The Royal Herring brings his Crown,
And at his Feet he layes it down:
Ten Thousand Dolphins next resort,
And play about to make him sport.
A Sea-Horse was his Horse of State,
For Champion, he a Sword-Fish gate.
And Neptune, coming to the place,
Converts his Trident to a Mace.
Only the Syrens from him swim,
Afraid to be out-charm'd by him;
Thus high, or low, be where he will,
He's Captain of the Tryumph still.
And from 'um all the Garland brought.
But afterwards, (pitty say I)
Where Cowards live, the Valiant dye:
This Son of Honour laid his head,
With honour, down on Honour's Bed.
And certainly he wants no room,
That has the Ocean for his Tomb.
Whom now in scorn of future harmes,
The Seas embrace with out-stretcht Armes.
The Royal Herring brings his Crown,
And at his Feet he layes it down:
Ten Thousand Dolphins next resort,
And play about to make him sport.
A Sea-Horse was his Horse of State,
For Champion, he a Sword-Fish gate.
And Neptune, coming to the place,
Converts his Trident to a Mace.
Only the Syrens from him swim,
Afraid to be out-charm'd by him;
Thus high, or low, be where he will,
He's Captain of the Tryumph still.
But, having thus the Ocean crost,
Let me now tell ye what we lost.
No Plummet could he Learning sound,
Alive, and dead too, he's profound.
So qualify'd, he could prevail,
Alike with Gown, and Coat of Mail.
He had a hand would all things sute,
Either the Sword, the Pen, or Lute.
Thus we in one have lost all three,
Apollo, Mars, and Mercurie.
No more then on the question stand,
The Seas now richer than the Land.
And we may well say Loyalty,
Lies in the bottom of the Sea.
Let me now tell ye what we lost.
No Plummet could he Learning sound,
Alive, and dead too, he's profound.
So qualify'd, he could prevail,
Alike with Gown, and Coat of Mail.
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Either the Sword, the Pen, or Lute.
Thus we in one have lost all three,
Apollo, Mars, and Mercurie.
No more then on the question stand,
The Seas now richer than the Land.
And we may well say Loyalty,
Lies in the bottom of the Sea.
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