Elegy On The deplorable Death of the Right Honourable, John Lord Belhaven who was lost at Sea, on the 10th of Nov. 1721 [by Alexander Pennecuik] |
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 | Elegy On The deplorable Death of the Right Honourable, John Lord Belhaven |  |
ELEGY ON The deplorable Death of the Right Honourable, JOHN Lord BELHAVEN, who was lost at Sea, on the 10th of Nov. 1721.
Written by Mr. Pennecuik.
Let
Scotia's Sons in sable Weeds appear,
Sigh every Soul, and drop a fun'ral Tear,
BELHAVEN's gone, the gallant Scotish Peer.
In doleful Ditties sing his Glorious Name.
Let Grones be heard, loud as his matchless Fame,
Nature turn'd gloomy fac'd, forbears to smile,
All Cheeks are pale, and Sorrow sinks the Isle.
Sigh every Soul, and drop a fun'ral Tear,
BELHAVEN's gone, the gallant Scotish Peer.
In doleful Ditties sing his Glorious Name.
Let Grones be heard, loud as his matchless Fame,
Nature turn'd gloomy fac'd, forbears to smile,
All Cheeks are pale, and Sorrow sinks the Isle.
When his Immortal Sire resign'd his Breath,
True Scotsmen felt the Agonies of Death;
(The Faithful Patriot's Memory shall stand,
While there are Men or Honour in Our Land.)
Yet they mix'd Words of Comfort with their Grone,
The Saint a Relict leaves his hopeful Son:
But He's gone too, where shall we Comfort have?
Its buried with him in the wat'ry Grave,
Ah! faithless Sea, thy Cruelty deplore,
Rich was the Scotish Cargo which you bore,
To waft with Kindness to a foreign Shore.
Old as thy self was the dear Hero's Blood,
Which thou extinguish'd with an impious Flood.
True Scotsmen felt the Agonies of Death;
(The Faithful Patriot's Memory shall stand,
While there are Men or Honour in Our Land.)
Yet they mix'd Words of Comfort with their Grone,
The Saint a Relict leaves his hopeful Son:
But He's gone too, where shall we Comfort have?
Its buried with him in the wat'ry Grave,
Ah! faithless Sea, thy Cruelty deplore,
Rich was the Scotish Cargo which you bore,
To waft with Kindness to a foreign Shore.
Old as thy self was the dear Hero's Blood,
Which thou extinguish'd with an impious Flood.
Yet his surviving Fame as far shall go,
As Phœbus shines, or thy proud Waves can flow.
Perfidious Element! must thy cold Arms,
Hold Him, and wash away his blooming Charms.
Ah! Traitor to thy Trust, how durst you touch
Him, who the English Court admir'd so much?
A greater Loss than if you'd drown'd the Dutch.
Ye Ships, that on the dang'rous Seas do run,
Hang out a mourning Flag, and drop a Gun;
Like Lightning, fly unto Barbadoes Coast,
And tell the killing News, The great BELHAVEN's lost:
That the new World may with the old condole
A skilful Statesman, and a gallant Soul.
Nor shall he want a Tomb, to tell his Deeds
To this, and all the Ages that succeeds:
His Actions are engrav'd in ev'ry Breast;
When Brass and Marble fails, his Fame will last.
Each Tongue's a Trumpet, loudly to proclaim
His Merit, and his never dying Name.
As Phœbus shines, or thy proud Waves can flow.
Perfidious Element! must thy cold Arms,
Hold Him, and wash away his blooming Charms.
Ah! Traitor to thy Trust, how durst you touch
Him, who the English Court admir'd so much?
A greater Loss than if you'd drown'd the Dutch.
Ye Ships, that on the dang'rous Seas do run,
Hang out a mourning Flag, and drop a Gun;
Like Lightning, fly unto Barbadoes Coast,
And tell the killing News, The great BELHAVEN's lost:
That the new World may with the old condole
A skilful Statesman, and a gallant Soul.
Nor shall he want a Tomb, to tell his Deeds
To this, and all the Ages that succeeds:
His Actions are engrav'd in ev'ry Breast;
When Brass and Marble fails, his Fame will last.
Each Tongue's a Trumpet, loudly to proclaim
His Merit, and his never dying Name.
ANNEXA.
Old Sathan, England's Friend, Our Foe,Contriv'd BELHAVEN's Overhtrow;
Lest the Indians should have broke
England's, and ta'en a Scotish Yoke.
To Scotland only sent their Pelf,
Thinking all Scotsmen like himself.
| Elegy On The deplorable Death of the Right Honourable, John Lord Belhaven | |