Olor Iscanus A Collection of some Select Poems, and Translations, Formerly written by Mr. Henry Vaughan Silurist. Published by a Friend |
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An Elegie on the death of Mr. R. W. slain
in the late unfortunate differences at Routon
Heath, neer Chester, 1645. |
 | Olor Iscanus |  |
13
An Elegie on the death of Mr. R. W. slain in the late unfortunate differences at Routon Heath, neer Chester, 1645.
I am Confirm'd, and so much wing is given
To my wild thoughts, that they dare strike at heav'n.
A full years griefe I struggled with, and stood
Still on my sandy hopes uncertain good,
So loth was I to yeeld, to all those fears
I still oppos'd thee, and denyed my tears.
But thou art gone! and the untimely losse
Like that one day, hath made all others Crosse.
Have you seen on some Rivers flowrie brow
A well-built Elme or stately Cedar grow,
Whose Curled tops gilt with the Morning-ray
Becken'd the Sun, and whisperd to the day,
When unexpected from the angry North
A fatall sullen whirle-wind sallies forth,
And with a full-mouth'd blast rends from the ground
The Shady twins, which rushing scatter round
Their sighing leafes whilst overborn with strength,
Their trembling heads bow to a prostrate length;
So forc'd fell he; So Immaturely Death
Stifled his able heart and active breath.
The world scarce knew him yet, his early Soule
Had but new-broke her day, and rather stole
A sight, than gave one; as if subt'ly she
Would learn our stock, but hide his treasurie.
His years (should time lay both his Wings and glasse
Unto his charge) could not be summ'd (alas!)
To a full score; Though in so short a span
His riper thoughts had purchas'd more of man
Than all those worthless livers, which yet quick,
Have quite outgone their own Arithmetick.
He seiz'd perfections, and without a dull
And mossie gray possess'd a solid skull,
No Crooked knowledge neither, nor did he
Wear the friends name for Ends and policie,
And then lay'd by; As those lost Youths of th'stage
Who only flourish'd for the Play's short age
And then retir'd, like Jewels in each part
He wore his friends, but chiefly at his heart.
To my wild thoughts, that they dare strike at heav'n.
A full years griefe I struggled with, and stood
Still on my sandy hopes uncertain good,
So loth was I to yeeld, to all those fears
I still oppos'd thee, and denyed my tears.
But thou art gone! and the untimely losse
Like that one day, hath made all others Crosse.
Have you seen on some Rivers flowrie brow
A well-built Elme or stately Cedar grow,
Whose Curled tops gilt with the Morning-ray
Becken'd the Sun, and whisperd to the day,
When unexpected from the angry North
A fatall sullen whirle-wind sallies forth,
And with a full-mouth'd blast rends from the ground
The Shady twins, which rushing scatter round
Their sighing leafes whilst overborn with strength,
Their trembling heads bow to a prostrate length;
So forc'd fell he; So Immaturely Death
Stifled his able heart and active breath.
The world scarce knew him yet, his early Soule
Had but new-broke her day, and rather stole
A sight, than gave one; as if subt'ly she
Would learn our stock, but hide his treasurie.
His years (should time lay both his Wings and glasse
Unto his charge) could not be summ'd (alas!)
To a full score; Though in so short a span
His riper thoughts had purchas'd more of man
Than all those worthless livers, which yet quick,
Have quite outgone their own Arithmetick.
He seiz'd perfections, and without a dull
And mossie gray possess'd a solid skull,
14
Wear the friends name for Ends and policie,
And then lay'd by; As those lost Youths of th'stage
Who only flourish'd for the Play's short age
And then retir'd, like Jewels in each part
He wore his friends, but chiefly at his heart.
Nor was it only in this he did excell,
His equall valour could as much, as well.
He knew no fear but of his God; yet durst
No injurie, nor (as some have) e'r pur'st
The sweat and tears of others, yet would be
More forward in a royall gallantrie
Than all those vast pretenders, which of late
Swell'd in the ruines of their King and State.
He weav'd not Self-ends, and the Publick good
Into one piece nor with the peoples bloud
Fill'd his own veins; In all the doubtfull way
Conscience and Honour rul'd him. O that day
When like the Fathers in the Fire and Cloud
I mist thy face! I might in ev'ry Crowd
See Armes like thine, and men advance, but none
So neer to lightning mov'd, nor so fell on.
Have you observ'd how soon the nimble Eye
Brings th'Object to Conceit, and doth so vie
Performance with the Soul, that you would swear
The Act and apprehension both lodg'd there,
Just so mov'd he: like shott his active hand
Drew bloud, e'r well the foe could understand.
But here I lost him. Whether the last turn
Of thy few sands call'd on thy hastie urn,
Or some fierce rapid fate (hid from the Eye)
Hath hurl'd thee Pris'ner to some distant skye
I cannot tell, but that I doe believe
Thy Courage such as scorn'd a base Reprieve.
What ever 'twas, whether that day thy breath
Suffer'd a Civill or the Common death,
Which I doe most suspect, and that I have
Fail'd in the glories of so known a grave,
Though thy lov'd ashes misse me, and mine Eyes
Had no acquaintance with thy Exequies,
Nor at the last farewell, torn from thy sight
On the Cold sheet have fix'd a sad delight,
Yet what e'r pious hand (in stead of mine)
Hath done this office to that dust of thine,
And till thou rise again from thy low bed
Lent a Cheap pillow to thy quiet head,
Though but a private turffe, it can do more
To keep thy name and memory in store
Than all those Lordly fooles which lock their bones
In the dumb piles of Chested brasse, and stones.
Th'art rich in thy own fame, and needest not
These Marble-frailties, nor the gilded blot
Of posthume honours; There is not one sand
Sleeps o'r thy grave, but can outbid that hand
And pencill too, so that of force wee must
Confesse their heaps shew lesser than thy dust.
His equall valour could as much, as well.
He knew no fear but of his God; yet durst
No injurie, nor (as some have) e'r pur'st
The sweat and tears of others, yet would be
More forward in a royall gallantrie
Than all those vast pretenders, which of late
Swell'd in the ruines of their King and State.
He weav'd not Self-ends, and the Publick good
Into one piece nor with the peoples bloud
Fill'd his own veins; In all the doubtfull way
Conscience and Honour rul'd him. O that day
When like the Fathers in the Fire and Cloud
I mist thy face! I might in ev'ry Crowd
See Armes like thine, and men advance, but none
So neer to lightning mov'd, nor so fell on.
Have you observ'd how soon the nimble Eye
Brings th'Object to Conceit, and doth so vie
Performance with the Soul, that you would swear
The Act and apprehension both lodg'd there,
Just so mov'd he: like shott his active hand
Drew bloud, e'r well the foe could understand.
But here I lost him. Whether the last turn
Of thy few sands call'd on thy hastie urn,
Or some fierce rapid fate (hid from the Eye)
Hath hurl'd thee Pris'ner to some distant skye
I cannot tell, but that I doe believe
Thy Courage such as scorn'd a base Reprieve.
What ever 'twas, whether that day thy breath
Suffer'd a Civill or the Common death,
Which I doe most suspect, and that I have
Fail'd in the glories of so known a grave,
15
Had no acquaintance with thy Exequies,
Nor at the last farewell, torn from thy sight
On the Cold sheet have fix'd a sad delight,
Yet what e'r pious hand (in stead of mine)
Hath done this office to that dust of thine,
And till thou rise again from thy low bed
Lent a Cheap pillow to thy quiet head,
Though but a private turffe, it can do more
To keep thy name and memory in store
Than all those Lordly fooles which lock their bones
In the dumb piles of Chested brasse, and stones.
Th'art rich in thy own fame, and needest not
These Marble-frailties, nor the gilded blot
Of posthume honours; There is not one sand
Sleeps o'r thy grave, but can outbid that hand
And pencill too, so that of force wee must
Confesse their heaps shew lesser than thy dust.
And (blessed soule!) though this my sorrow can
Adde nought to thy perfections, yet as man
Subject to Envy, and the common fate
It may redeem thee to a fairer date;
As some blind Dial, when the day is done,
Can tell us at mid-night, There was a Sun,
So these perhaps, though much beneath thy fame,
May keep some weak remembrance of thy name,
And to the faith of better times Commend
Thy loyall upright life, and gallant End.
Adde nought to thy perfections, yet as man
Subject to Envy, and the common fate
It may redeem thee to a fairer date;
As some blind Dial, when the day is done,
Can tell us at mid-night, There was a Sun,
So these perhaps, though much beneath thy fame,
May keep some weak remembrance of thy name,
And to the faith of better times Commend
Thy loyall upright life, and gallant End.
Nomen & arma locum servant, te, amice, nequivi Conspicere,—
| Olor Iscanus | |