University of Virginia Library

When a Republick looses in the Field
A Captain, who, whilest living, was their shield
Or when, cut off by Age, within their walls
Some prudent Senator, some good Patriot falls;
The widdow'd State her mourning then puts on,
As all her Counsels, and Defence were gone,
And weeps, and mourns, as she foresaw she must
Be subject to the first Invaders Lust,
Despising all her off-spring that remain,
That Citizen dead, and that old Souldier slain:
But to advance their Names, no cost is spar'd,
Medals are cast, and Obelisques are rear'd;
The Marble Quarry is torn up, the Mine
Is search't, and rob'd to make their Triumphs shine
But the neglected Poet when he dies,
Or with obscure, or with no Obsequies
Is lay'd aside; and though by living Verse,
Strew'd on this Hero's and that Statesman's Hearse
His Pen graves Characters, by which they live
A longer life, than Brass or Marble give;
Yet has this generous Poet no returne,
None to weep ore his Urne, nay scarce an Urne.
O undiscerning World! the Souldier's brave
Either for what he wants, or thirsts to have,
His breast opposing against fire, and flame
Either for Riches, or a glorious name:
Reward, and honour make the Souldiers trade,
And if he either win, the man's well pay'd.
The Statesman, on the other side, takes pains,
To smooth that Warr to Peace, and works his brains,
Or to appease an Enemy, or make
Such Friends, as may at need make good the stake,
Nor is his reverend care, when all is done,
More for his Countrey's safety, than his own;
And that which makes his Cities freedom dear,
Is that himself, and his inhabit there.
Whereas the Poet by more generous wayes,
Distributes boughs of Oake, and shoots of Bayes.
According to due merit, nor does take,
Thought of Reward, but all for Vertues sake.
It were in vain to write on other score,
The Poet knows his lot is to be Poor:
For whatsoer's well Done, well Writ, well Said,
The Bard is ever the last man that's pay'd;
The wary World has wisely taken time,
Till the Greek Kalends do account for Rhythm.

Nor do I here intend the Gold that's hurl'd
Like flaming brands thorough the peaceful world,
To make whole Kingdoms into Faction split,
Should be suppos'd the recompence of wit:
The Poet scorns that sordid seed of Earth,
The World's alluring, but unhappy birth.
All he desires, all that he would demand,
Is only that some amicable hand,
Wou'd but irriguate his fading bayes
With Due, and only with deserved Praise;
Yet even this so modest a request,
The Age denies. Alass! what interest,
Has vertue upon Earth, when Brome could dye,
And be lamented with no Elegie?
No friendly hand t'enforme the Passenger,
That gentle Brome, the Muses joy, lies here.
More had not needed to have been express't,
Himself has made provision for the rest.
Whilst Pindar's Bayes grows green amongst the dead,
Whilst Horace, or Anacreon are read,
My Brome shall live, and Travellers that come
From distant shores, transport his Verses home.
Nor needs he other, than his own great Name,
To recommend him to immortal Fame;
His merits lustre of it self will doo't,
Shine to the Pole's and put those sparklets out.

And yet we had our gratitude express't,
T'have given our Testimonies, at the least,
Of his great worth, and publish't our esteem,
That we all lov'd, and all lamented him:
But men were strook at his untimely Fate,
Which makes us pay our Fun'ral tears thus late.
And, as a tender Mother when she hears,
Her only Childe is lost, lets fall no tears,
But at the horrour of the first sad sound,
Falls, as if strook with Thunder in a swound,
Till by the help of unkind remedies,
To ease her soul, she opes her weeping eyes;
So wit orecome, and cast into a trance,
At this so unexpected a mischance,
Must through that night of grief, and horror break,
Before it could get article to speak;
And this deferr'd these honours to his Tomb,
They're little griefs that speak, deep sorrow's dumb