The poems of William Habington Edited with introduction and commentary by Kenneth Allott |
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On the death of the Right Honourable, GEORGE Earle of S.
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 | The poems of William Habington |  |
On the death of the Right Honourable, GEORGE Earle of S.
Bright Saint, thy pardon, if my sadder verse,
Appeare in sighing o're thy glorious hearse,
To envie heaven. For fame it selfe now weares
Griefes livery, and onely speaks in teares.
And pardon you Castara if a while
Your memory I banish from my stile;
When I have payd his death the tribute due,
Of sorrow, I'le returne to Love and you.
Is there a name like Talbot, which a showre
Can force from every eye? And hath even powre
To alter natures course? How else should all
Runne wilde with mourning, and distracted fall:
Th' illiterate vulgar in a well tun'd breath,
Lament their losse, and learnedly chide death,
For its bold rape, while the sad Poets song
Is yet unheard, as if griefe had no tongue.
Th' amaz'd marriner having lost his way
In the tempestuous desart of the Sea,
Lookes up but findes no starres. They all conspire
To darke themselves, t' enlighten this new fire.
The learn'd Astronomer with daring eye,
Searching to tracke the Spheares through which you flie,
(Most beauteous soule) doth in his journey faile,
And blushing, sayes, the subtlest art is fraile,
And but truths counterfet. Your flight doth teach,
Faire Vertue hath an Orbe beyond his reach.
Appeare in sighing o're thy glorious hearse,
To envie heaven. For fame it selfe now weares
Griefes livery, and onely speaks in teares.
And pardon you Castara if a while
Your memory I banish from my stile;
When I have payd his death the tribute due,
Of sorrow, I'le returne to Love and you.
Is there a name like Talbot, which a showre
Can force from every eye? And hath even powre
To alter natures course? How else should all
Runne wilde with mourning, and distracted fall:
Th' illiterate vulgar in a well tun'd breath,
Lament their losse, and learnedly chide death,
For its bold rape, while the sad Poets song
Is yet unheard, as if griefe had no tongue.
Th' amaz'd marriner having lost his way
In the tempestuous desart of the Sea,
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To darke themselves, t' enlighten this new fire.
The learn'd Astronomer with daring eye,
Searching to tracke the Spheares through which you flie,
(Most beauteous soule) doth in his journey faile,
And blushing, sayes, the subtlest art is fraile,
And but truths counterfet. Your flight doth teach,
Faire Vertue hath an Orbe beyond his reach.
But I grow dull with sorrow. Vnkinde Fate
To play the tyrant and subvert the state
Of setled goodnesse. Who shall henceforth stand
A pure example to enforme the Land
Of her loose riot? Who shall counterchecke
The wanton pride of greatnesse; and direct
Straid honour in the true magnificke way?
Whose life shall shew what triumph 'tis t' obey
The hard commands of reason? And how sweet
The nuptials are, when wealth and learning meet?
Who will with silent piety confute
Atheisticke Sophistry, and by the fruite
Approve Religions tree? who'le teach his blood
A Virgin law, and dare be great and good?
Who will despise his stiles? And nobly weigh
In judgements ballance, that his honour'd clay
Hath no advantage by them? Who will live
So innocently pious, as to give
The world no scandall? who'll himselfe deny,
And to warme passion a cold martyr dye?
My griefe distracts me. If my zeale hath said,
What checks the living; know I serve the dead.
The dead, who needs no monumentall vaults,
With his pale ashes to intombe his faults.
Whose sins beget no libels, whom the poore
For benefit, for worth, the rich adore.
Who liv'd a solitary Phænix, free
From the commerce with mischiefe, joy'd to be
Still gazing heaven-ward, where his thoughts did move
Fed with the sacred fire of zealous love.
Alone he flourisht, till the fatall houre
Did summon him, when gathering from each flowre
Their vertuous odours, from his perfum'd nest,
He tooke his flight to everlasting rest.
There shine great Lord, and with propitious eyes,
Looke downe, and smile upon this sacrifice.
To play the tyrant and subvert the state
Of setled goodnesse. Who shall henceforth stand
A pure example to enforme the Land
Of her loose riot? Who shall counterchecke
The wanton pride of greatnesse; and direct
Straid honour in the true magnificke way?
Whose life shall shew what triumph 'tis t' obey
The hard commands of reason? And how sweet
The nuptials are, when wealth and learning meet?
Who will with silent piety confute
Atheisticke Sophistry, and by the fruite
Approve Religions tree? who'le teach his blood
A Virgin law, and dare be great and good?
Who will despise his stiles? And nobly weigh
In judgements ballance, that his honour'd clay
Hath no advantage by them? Who will live
So innocently pious, as to give
The world no scandall? who'll himselfe deny,
And to warme passion a cold martyr dye?
My griefe distracts me. If my zeale hath said,
What checks the living; know I serve the dead.
The dead, who needs no monumentall vaults,
With his pale ashes to intombe his faults.
Whose sins beget no libels, whom the poore
For benefit, for worth, the rich adore.
Who liv'd a solitary Phænix, free
From the commerce with mischiefe, joy'd to be
Still gazing heaven-ward, where his thoughts did move
Fed with the sacred fire of zealous love.
77
Did summon him, when gathering from each flowre
Their vertuous odours, from his perfum'd nest,
He tooke his flight to everlasting rest.
There shine great Lord, and with propitious eyes,
Looke downe, and smile upon this sacrifice.
| The poems of William Habington | |