Iter boreale With large additions of several other poems: being an exact collection of all hitherto extant. Never before published together. The author R. Wild |
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UPON THE DEATH OF Dennis Bond, Esq;
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UPON THE DEATH OF Dennis Bond, Esq;
Who died four Dayes before the LORD PROTECTOR.
Now whil'st Whitehall wears black, and men do fear'Tis Treason any Colour else to wear;
Whilst Mourners, like a flock of Crows, resort
To the great Lion's Carcase, at the Court;
Whilst the sad Members of the Tother House
(That Mountain wch last year brought forth a Mouse)
Lament his Fall, who Madam'd all their Wives,
And Thurloe wishes he had had nine Lives;
Whilst some lament, he dy'd without an Ax,
And fear the Funeral will cost Tax;
Whilst cunning Scotland counterfeits a Groan,
And Ireland cudgell'd into her Alone;
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And Welchmen use their Leeks to make them cry;
Whilst Grief doth chime All-in, and every Tribe
Eycleped, Mayor and Aldermen, subscribe
(Or make their Marks at least) how ful of Sadness
That Oliver is dead, and eke of gladness
That Richard reigns! though the Slaves lie, I fear,
For their old Gowns are lin'd with Cavalier:
Whilst the sad Poetasters of the times
Plaister the Hearse with miserable Rhymes,
And I, poor Man, might mend my Fortune too,
As sure as ever Lord Hewson mended Shoo,
If I could baste my Muse, and make her go:
I, by that great Ghosts leave, am well content
To wait upon a meaner Monument;
Yet fit to stand by this, if not above,
As having, though less Pomp, yet no less Love;
'Tis Dennis Bond, that true bred English Squire,
Whose worth, if my rude Fancy should aspire
To reach the Sinews; just, pious, valiant wise,
Able for Counsel or for Enterprize;
Fit to set Cato Copies, if alive,
Able to make a Bankrupt Nation thrive;
Th' Alchimy of whose single Judgement could
Convert a Leaden Councel into Gold.
Atlas of State! oh! if King Charls that's gone,
In stead of Digby and old Cottington,
Had had one Dennis; he had stood till now,
And kept the Crown fast on his Royal Brow.
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In one week lost their Pilot, and his Mate:
And though he dy'd in's Bed, 'tis not deny'd;
Yet was his Head struck off when Dennis dy'd.
Adieu, brave Bond! My aged Muse shall burn
Her with'red Lawrel at thy sacred Urn.
Live thine own Monument, and scorn a Stone;
Marbles themselves have flaws, thy Name has none
That plat of Earth which grasps thee in her womb,
Proud of such Treasure, swells into a Tomb.
When the next Parliament together come,
And miss their Western Patriot from his room,
Despairing that their Meeting will not speed,
Grief will dissolve them, no Protector need.
R. W.
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