University of Virginia Library

Thow quelling Bird, that courts Meanders brooks,
Where silver swans, accoast six hundreth crooks;
Out of thy dyeing wing, send me a quill,
Dip'd in Penneian springs, from Pindus rill;
To moyst my sun-scorched veyne, with liquid drops,
Which flow from Soron, twixt the forked tops;
The Nymphs I cite to ayde, let them infuse,
Sweet Demthen rills, their Heliconean Muse;
I sing the saddest verse ere Poet wrot,
Since that my Virgin wombe, first bred a Scot:
Now launch I forth, now gush my watery plaints,
And shiv'ring come, as one through grief that faints:
Loade with the spoyles of sorrow, I complayne
All other woes, compar'd with myne, seeme vane;
Onely salt teares, which from my bowells flow
Shall restles runne, and let the Occean know
My dyre distresse: Such clouddy accents wold
Have larger scope, than hembd-in Regiones hold.
Me thinks a murmuring noyse, drawes from the South,
Post, post, he comes, the horn roynds in his mouth;
The spurres are prest, the horse bends o're my bounds,
The boyes lips do quiver; Death, Death, he sounds
The sound strikes through my heart. O dysmall day!
That waxd so proud, of such a Princely prey;
Death, packet-seald, my cheeffest City entered,
The Lords it ope, wsd Liberty so venterd:
Grim Death's disclosed, they weeping close their eyes,
Their greefs dividuat, seeme but one desease:
He flat downe falles, the other speechles stands,
One tears-strick blynd, another wrings his hands;
The rest distracted, all passion-rent bewry
In deep-drawne sighs, Man's fate, King's destiny;
One warbling voyce chirps out, one playnes how Death
Had robd great James his high imperiall breath:
This Eccho smote the hills, the hilles rebounded
Back on the vayles: the Rivers deadly wounded
Fled to the Belgick deeps: The Seas retourne
Their sinking loade, and swore the Land should mourne.
Then groveling on the ground, half dead, I rose
And clos'd within myne armes, these bosome woes:
Thus sighing sayd I, is my Sov'raigne dead,
Or shall I want, my Ruler, and my head
My Sone, my Father, and my Lord, was he,
That crownd my fortunes, I, his Pedegree:
My Valour was his Strength, his Law, my Love,
My Deeds, his Right, my loyall Faith, his Dove:
Betweene a King, and Kingdome, never Nation
Had such respondence, nor such immutation.
But now I listen, whence the Message comes,
That Me, unto eternall mourning doomes;
England's two Deaths, hath robd me twyse, one Prince,
The last, as worst, for ever, takes him thence.
What! shall I censure? that my Sister's sin,
This judgement did procure; the lyke hath bin,
That Kings for subjects suffer: Tymes allow,
That people for their Prince, are punished too:
Or can I cleare my self, and guiltless be,
Of this desaster; Heavens best judge, and see;
But how soe're, we both are cause, or either,
That we have lost, so just, so good, a Father,
Myne intrest, in my right, exceeds far more,
All others losse, than milleons can deplore:
I from a never-conquer'd Race, forth brought him,
And kept him long, till other Kingdomes sought him:
I plac'd the glory, on his Diademe,
Which his Ancestors, wore, and wonne, with fame.
Who from One hundreth six of noble Kings,
His Pedegree, unviolat, he brings;
What Countreye, in this Universe can boast?
Of such a Stock, though now my Prince, seems lost;
And yet not lost, but changeth Earth, for Heaven,
The oddes are his, my fortunes left uneven:
And yet Heavens Verdict, wele foresaw, allone,
He should not fare, to that triumphant Throne:
Three best belov'd, with Loves entire I knoe,
Did challenge Death, they dye, away they go;
As Harbingers to Heaven: They sute as freends,
The Court Hierchall; done, their journey ends.
Two Lennox Dukes, kynd brother, after brother
Made way before; each gloryeing in another;
As if they had contended, to make haist,
To welcome there, their owne Imperiall Guest.
Than Hamilton fell next, my second Sone,
Prickd with desyre, his course, he quickly runne:
Lyke to the Star, that leads the Moone, so he,
Did post before, made way for Majestie.
Last came their King, the King of Mercy, met him,
And by his throne of glory, downe he set him:
High Alleluhiaes sung, the Angells joyed,
To see his sp'rit, from hence, so wele convoyed;
For they had saved him, in all fearefull seasons,
From Powder-plots, Conspiracies, and Treasons;
Still lovd he Peace, and so he Peace posesst,
He livd in Peace, in Peace, his Soul, doth rest.
His Subjects, that the Orient Coasts have trode,
Who livd secure at home, as safe abroade;
Their Peace, he fastned, to the furthest Inde,
Where travayles reachd, or ships could sayle by wynd:
What mighty discords, jarres, and forrane broyle,
Did he appease, and spard, no cost, nor toyle;
He father-lyke, still quenched all Kingly ire,
And made his aged yeares, old Europes Syre:
Since Salomon, a wyser King ne'er raigned,
Nor whom the Learnd, and Learning more sustaynd:
In Memory unsurpassed, in Airts excelld,
In Oratrie, a Prince unparalelld;
Whose sacred temples, knit with Delphian bayes,
Gaynd him, a Kingly Poet, Poets prayse.
His Justice, fraught with Mercy, bless'd his spirit,
And liberall, he was, beyond man's merit:
The widdowes, orphanes, and poore men opprest,
In him fund ayde, and in his justice rest;
This long devyded Ile, he joynd in One,
And made this Britaine orbe, one Albion:
In him, surceased, the Irish warres, and They,
By him, wer taught, a Sovraigne, to obey:
And for to setle, that Estate the better,
Made large plantations, thousands came his debtor.
Of late, my second Scotia he erected,
And Collonies t'America directed.
What gift, or grace, did Nature e're adorne,
To which my mighty monarch was not borne.

But now prodigious signes, portend my losse,
See how the surges ryse, the waters tosse
The seas presage a fall, their swelling streams
Do threat my coast: now violent extremes
Turne rage in madness: and tho waves at hand
Seeme weary, and would rest them, on the land:
They swallow up my works, and lyke to theves,
Are seldome quyet, when their nyghbour grieves;
I runne, and I adjurd them to recite
The cause of their dissorder; they hurling sit
On trembling tops, and by a tumbling show,
Presag'd, that Death had stroke the fatall blow.
The clyme, the season fits, the tyme, was one
Their fury, in, my Sou'raignes Death, is gone.
O day of darkness, covert of my woes,
Whence melancholy floods, of sorrow flowes,
My wracks erected; The clouds profoundly wept
Fyve dayes and nights: The Sunne as clossely kept
His course obscure: The thundering wynds forth broke
As if they meant to shake some mighty oak:
Mens harts were loade with greef, their eyes with teares,
Are gushing spoyled; their mynds o'recome with fears,
These elementall sygnes, foretold what losses
Death would produce, fraught with desastruous crosses:
My Darling dyes, my State declynes, and I,
My grievous plaints, in darker kynds, must dy;
A dolefull widdow, wrapd in sable vales
I must remane, true mourning there bewayles:
But see my Nobles post, looke how they tracd,
To Isis banks, where his sad herse is placd;
There to attend the corps, which they so tender;
More, due, and duty, Death, they could not render;
Nor is he dead, whose better parts remane,
The Sunnes ne'er set, but for to ryse agane;
He did not so, assume, to leave the earth
Voyd of his Vertues, spoyld of royall birth;
But in his Phenix ashes, there should spring
Another Phenix, for to be a King;
Lyke to old Phebus, drawing to the west,
Seemd weary of his journey sought for rest;
And left his second self, agane to ryse,
In morning majestie, to face the skyes,
And cheare the Elitropian leaves, that close
Their mourning eyes, till Titan's glory rose;
And now my spotless faith, I plight thy Sonne,
That never yet was staynd, nor never wonne
My Mayden Crowne, thy image, he shall beare,
Thou left him for to sweye thy Scepters here;
Peace, Love, and Pitty were thy guerdons three,
With them, thou raignst, now raignes eternally.
Farewele Monarchick Sainct, let Legions tend Thee,
As thou had Milleones, here for to defend Thee,

Go prostrat Lynes, greet thyne Appolloes herse,
Who, whylst alyve, lykd, lovd, and read my verse.