University of Virginia Library

Alcander, a Funeral Eclogue:

To the Memory of Sir Gilbert Gerrard, Bar. whose Death was occasion'd by the overturning a Coach.

Doran. Amintor.
AMYNTOR.
Doran , methinks this lonely gloomy Shade
Seems only for Despair and Sorrow made:
The Cheerful Sun darts here no rosie Beam,
But all is sad and silent in extreme;
The Melancholy Place deserves a Melancholy Theme.

DORAN.
Look thro' Blue Glass and the whole Prospect's blue;
Thro' Sorrow's Optick this Retreat you view,
And that does give it the same Tincture too.
You first saw Cælia in this very Place;
Cælia! the Chastest of the Charming Race,
All Truth writ in her Mind, all Beauty in her Face!
Not one of all the Shepherds on the Plain
That sigh'd for the fair Maid, but sigh'd in vain;
She still frown'd on, regardless of their Pain:
You only gain'd her Favour, and 'twas here
The sweet disdainful Nymph vouchsaf'd an Ear:
She heard you, so much Wit and Truth were shown,
You melted her to Love, and made her all your own:
And still as Lovingly these Myrtles twine,
As if her snowy Hands lay prest in Thine,
And all the Quire of Birds stood mute to hear her Voice Divine.
'Tis you then that are chang'd; and O! if what
My boding Fears suggest I may relate,
In your Desponding Looks I read Alcander's Fate.

AMYNTOR.
You have it right, it is too truly so!
He's gone, where (soon, or late) we all must go!
He's gone, whom we for ever shall deplore!
Alcander! dear Alcander is no more!
No more! O bitter and afflictive Sound!
What two-edg'd Sword can give a deeper Wound?
What Ponyard, Poison, or envenom'd Dart
Can find a quicker Passage to the Heart?
They wound but once, and this thro' ev'ry Pore:
No more! O bitter, hateful Word, no more!

DORAN.
Thy Grief, O Friend! with the like Grief I view;
For to the Vertu'ous still a Tear is due,
As well from those unknown, as those they knew.
How many down to low Oblivion roll,
Life Name and Memo'ry, and there Perish whole?
Others there are (and yet of those but few)
At most Remember'd but by One or Two,
A Wife, a Husband, or a Gaping Heir
That inward Smiles, and Strains to force a Tear.
None but a Soul for Publick Good design'd,
Diffusive, Brave, Impartial, Wise and Kind,
Cou'd leave so many mourning Friends behind.

AMYNTOR.
If we his Vertues in our Sorrows shew,
There shall be nothing wanting Grief can do
To make 'em lasting, and to draw 'em true:
Of all the Myriads back to Dust return'd,
Not one e'er more was miss'd, or more was mourn'd!
In me, O Doran! read (and You may see
His Loss in no small Measure touches me)
How all the Swains (as if their Souls were one)
Disdain to think of Respit to their Moan;
With Eyes o'er flowing, and a Bust of Grief,
They Sigh! they Swoon! they Rave! and fly Relief!

DORAN.
'Tis hard, Amyntor, and has made of late
Some Wretched Men Expostulate with Fate;
'Tis hard, and it must pierce the Hardest Heart
To think that Honour, Beauty and Desert,
Are most obnoxious to the Fatal Dart.

AMYNTOR.
Too many sad Examples we may view,
That what Y'ave said, O Doran, is too true!
For O! to my Confusion now I find
Death makes Distinction, takes the Just and Kind,
And nought but Knave and Coxcomb leaves behind;
And they live on the Time that Nature gave,
Till, tir'd with Life, no longer Time they crave,
And upon Crutches creep into the Grave.
But such as dear Alcander at a Day,
And oft unwarn'd, in Health are snatch'd away!
Why had not I his Fatal Hour supply'd!
For Him to Live, how willing had I dy'd!
No Loss by me cou'd on the Publick fall,
His Loss does for the Publick Sorrow call,
And will, as soon as heard, be mourn'd by all.
His Country's Glory he did still attend,
That with his Life and Fortune to defend;
No Man was ever more his Country's Friend.
But he is gone! he's gone! and let us mourn!
Gone to the Grave! and never must return!
To the dark Grave! to the wide gloomy Shade!
Where, undistinguish'd, Good and Bad are laid!
O Eyes! run o'er, and take of Grief your fill,
Let ev'ry Tear be sharp enough to kill!
Let ev'ry Groan come from my Heart, and show
'Tis torn with the Convulsive Pangs of Woe!
O Cheeks! henceforth no Sanguin Colour come
To open View, but Pale usurp the Room;
Such a true Pale as may distinctly show
The fatal Cause from whence the sad Effect does flow!
Let from my Lips the livid Tincture fly,
Like Ev'ning Rays before a gloomy Sky;
And a dark Ashy Hue thro'out be spread,
Dusk'd over like the Visage of the Dead!—
In vain alas! I'd thus my Sorrows shew!
'Tis all, that Nature and that Art can do,
Short of our Loss, and wanting to my Woe!

DORAN.
When I just now Your Sorrow did Commend,
I did not mean a Sorrow without end:
The Dead claim Nothing but our Present Grief,
While Nature does exert her Pow'r in Chief;
For they that dye well give us this Relief:
They're free from ev'ry Vice, and ev'ry Care,
Envy, Disgrace, Resentment, and Despair,
With all the Num'rous Catalogue of Ills
That plague us here, and crowd the Weekly Bills.
In spite of all that's urg'd in Life's defence,
And all the Pleasures that depend on Sense,
There's no true Pleasure till we go from hence.
Beside it from the depth of Folly springs,
Our striving to prevent inevitable things.
Not all our Sighs and Tears, tho' ne'er so great,
Tho' spent at never so profuse a Rate,
Can change th'unalterable Doom of Fate:
We must resign when Heav'n does give the Call;
Cedars, where that does lay the Ax, must fall.

AMYNTOR.
That all must Die is true beyond Debate;
But some may Die too soon and some too late.
When good Men leave us (what e'er turn you use)
Tho' Heav'n may gain, we wretched Mortals lose:
There brightest Spirits but small Lustre add,
Here they shine out, and wou'd direct the Bad:
Like Israel's GUIDE in a Corporeal Shrowd,
By Night our Pillar, and by Day our Cloud.
How many cou'd we at this Instant name
That strive to put the Nation in a Flame,
Blood their Delight, and civil Strife their Aim?
For needy Men with Rage their want supplies,
And in a common Ruin soonest rise:
In any Change that's for subverting all,
'Tis they will be advanc'd that cannot fall.
He wisely saw which way the Stream wou'd force,
And ras'd the Banks that did divert it's Course.
O never let the Swains his Praise forget!
But make his Vertues lasting, as they're Great.
Nor shou'd we doubt the fixing his Esteem,
Cou'd but our Strains be equal to the Theme.

DORAN.
He was your Friend, I oft have heard you tell
Scarce new-made Mothers love their Babes so well.
Your richest Incense to his Memory bring,
You best that knew his Worth and best his Worth can sing.

AMYNTOR.
My Oaten Reed no lofty Notes can raise,
And lofty Notes alone can reach his Praise:
Yet tho' I'm short in Pow'r accept the Will,
And let my Love atone my want of Skill.

DORAN.
Be still ye Winds; let not the gentlest Breeze
With winding Laby'rinth murmur thro' the Trees:
Ev'n Philomel thy Charming Grief forbear;
Y'ave long pleas'd us, now lend your self an Ear;
Let all below, above, and all around us hear,
While in loud Strains Amyntor gives to Fame
A Life of Glory, and a Deathless Name.

AMYNTOR.
Y'ave heard, O Doran! of our fatal Broils,
Our harrast Country and intestine Toils:
How the Proud Subject, in a cursed Hour,
Assum'd the sacred Reins of Soveraign Pow'r.
By unjust Force a num'rous Host was rais'd,
The Patriots of Rebellion lov'd and Prais'd:
Enthusiasm, Interest, Spite and Rage,
And all the Agents of a barba'rous Age,
Broke loose at once, and level'd at the Crown,
To raise themselves by pulling Justice down.
'Twas for our Sins (and a prodigious Birth)
Th'Almighty pour'd his Vials on the Earth.
May we no more to such Destruction live,
Or, if we must, not from our selves receive.
Here brave Alcander, on this bloody Stage,
Found Work t'employ his Vertue and his Rage.
And that his Loyalty might first be try'd,
He took the Royal, and the suffering Side.
In all Encounters prodigal of Blood,
Nor valu'd Life lost in a Cause so Good:
Where Danger and Confusion thickest lay,
Thro', like a Storm, forc'd his impetuous Way.
Let Edge-hill's fatal Field his Worth declare,
Success in Conduct, and his Name in War:
Nor only He, but, with the like Applause,
His Father, Uncles, Brothers, all were in the Cause.
O Loyal Family! O Ancient Name!
The Sound repeated fills the blast of Fame!
The Royal Martyr saw, and had regard,
Saw his vast Worth, and gave him due Reward.
But ah in vain!—Art, Courage, Conduct, Force,
Were all too weak to stop the Torrents Course;
Down fell the Banks, the Deluge enter'd fast,
'Till all was lost, all overwhelm'd at last!
For 'twas permitted gracious Charles shou'd Bleed,
To brand his Rebels with a blacker Deed
Than Hell that did Inspire 'em cou'd Exceed!
Thus Blood and Usurpation rais'd their Head;
When with the rest the brave Alcander fled,
And long in Exile mourn'd his murder'd Lord;
Nor saw one happy Moment, till he saw his Race restor'd.
Here was a short amends for all his Pain,
A Fortune Ruin'd, and his Kindred Slain.
Th'Auspicious Prince return'd, benign, August,
Look't on his Wrongs, advanc't him into Trust;
And never was a Subject trulier just.
But who, alas! can long a Favourite be?
Or ride safe in the Court's inconstant Sea?
A Sea, indeed, where Winds but gently blow,
But full of Shelves and treach'rous Sands below;
Where when they'd to the Port of Safety Steer,
It mocks the Statesman's Art, and Pilot's Care,
And leaves th'adventu'rous Wit forlorn and bare:
A tott'ring Station can no Peace afford,
And Envy wounds much deeper than the Sword.

DORAN.
The Wisest and the Bravest ne'er cou'd be
From the vile Tongues of black Detractors free;
And rising Vertues, as they mount the Sky,
They daily watch and murder as they fly.
As the returning Light expels the Dark,
And points the Archer to the distant Mark;
So Good Men, made by their own Polish bright,
Stand but a fairer Butt for Rage and Spite.
A Prince's Favour dange'rous Glories bring;
In ev'ry Male-content it puts a Sting:
By such the Fav'ourite is despis'd, debas'd,
The Good he does the Publick goes unprais'd,
The more their Hatred, as He's higher rais'd.
When thus the Legislative Crew prevail,
And drive on furious, both with Tyde and Sail,
The Worthy, Honest, Loyal Man must fail;
Expos'd to black Aspersions, Publick hate,
And oft Resigns to an Inglorious Fate.
Of this hard Truth let wretched Strafford tell,
He, who when all cry'd Justice! Justice! without Justice fell.

AMYNTOR.
Darkn'd a while, but not quite overcast,
'Twas but a faint Eclipse, and soon was past.
Alcander's Vertue was too bright to lye
Long shrouded under Odious Calumny;
But, like the Sun, for a short time retir'd
Behind a Cloud, broke out and was admir'd.
And let me here to their Confusion tell,
Their lasting shame that shou'd have us'd him well,
(An Honour ne'er conferr'd but on the Brave)
He bore his Prince's Favour to his Grave;
Firm in his Grace he stood, and high Esteem:
And here again renews the Mournful Theme!
When Glory seem'd to court him with her Smiles,
And give him Peace after an Age of Toils;
When all around him 'twas Serene and Bright,
And Promis'd a long run of Life and Light,
Then! then his Eyes to close in Death's Eternal Night!
And, which does yet for further Sorrow call,
By a mean Accident Ignobly fall:
Not in the Field where Fame and Honour's Sought,
And where, with Blood, he had that Honour bought;
Not in his Kings, or injur'd Country's Cause,
Destroying those that wou'd Subvert the Laws:
But by a Chance that does too truely show
How little to that Trifle, Life we owe!
Not worth one half we to preserve it pay,
That is in spite of all our Care, so quickly snatch't away:
Add to all this his firm unshaken Mind,
To the fixt Pole of Glory still inclin'd:
A Carriage Graceful, and a Wit Sublime,
A Friendship not to be impair'd by Time:
A Soul sedate, with no Misfortune mov'd,
And no man was with more Misfortune prov'd.
Death he ne'er fear'd in it's most Ghastly Form,
In Slaughter, Blood, and Cities took by Storm:
Now he Caress'd him with a Cheerful Brow,
Welcome at all Times, but most welcome now!
O had you heard, e'er he did Life resign,
With how much Zeal he talk'd of Things Divine,
You wou'd have thought, so sweet his dying Tongue,
While he discours'd descending Angels sung;
Waiting his Better Part with them to bear;
Which now, let loose, thro' the vast Tract of Air
Pierc't like a Sun-beam, to it's Native Sphere.

DORAN.
There let him Rest!—and let the Thought, my Friend,
That he is Happy thy Complaints suspend,—
But come, 'tis time we now shou'd Home-ward steer,
And, to be plain, 'tis but cold Comfort here.
The Mold is damp, the Wind perversely blows,
And Night, far spent, invites us to Repose.
Come, let me raise Thee by the Friendly Arm—
What? still in Tears? and has my Voice no Charm?

AMYNTOR.
Yes, I will go, but think not of Repose;
My Heart's too full to let my Eye-lids close.
No cheerful Thought shall in my Breast find Room,
But Death and Man's Inevitable Doom:
Nor Rest will I invoke, unless it be,
That Rest that shakes off dull Mortality.
When, following Him that is past on before,
I lay me down to sleep and wake no more.