KOSMOBREVIA[Greek], or the infancy of the world With an Appendix of Gods resting day, Edon Garden; Mans Happiness before, Misery after, his Fall. Whereunto is added, The Praise of Nothing; Divine Ejaculations; The four Ages of the world; The Birth of Christ; Also a Century of Historical Applications; With a Taste of Poetical fictions. Written some years since by N. B.[i.e. Nicholas Billingsley] ... And now published at the request of his Friends |
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Monumentum Exequiale
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 | KOSMOBREVIA[Greek], or the infancy of the world |  |
108
Monumentum Exequiale
OR Lasting sorrow for the death of the Reverend, Pious, and Eminently-learned, Mr Tho Horn, late School-master of Eaton Colledg.
Oh I am drown'd in grief, a Borean blast
Hath torn my tackling, tumbled down my mast
My Anchor's lost, my Cable is undone,
And I, poore I, upon the quick-sands run:
Could I command the gold in India shines,
Arabian Mountaines, and American Mines,
What e're breaths from Panchaia's spicy woods,
What costly Gems enrich Idaspes floods:
All would I give to him that could impart
The least of ease to my corroded heart.
Stormes have their calmes, flowings their ebs, but I
Am the Charybdis of perpiexity
Ah me! ah me! Melpomene lament
This common loss, till all thy tears be spent.
Lock not thy thoughts in silence: cloath thy mind
In aiery garments: while the blust'ring wind
Of greif, doth agitate thy yeilding breast,
Oh how canst thou expect a minuts rest!
Groan thunder then: salute the deafned skies
With integrated sobs: let thy swoln eyes
Be Islands, circled with a Sea of tears:
And in thy Readers hospitable ears
Lodge thy lamenting sounds: that they may flow
As well as thee: and empty out their woe.
Hath torn my tackling, tumbled down my mast
My Anchor's lost, my Cable is undone,
And I, poore I, upon the quick-sands run:
Could I command the gold in India shines,
Arabian Mountaines, and American Mines,
What e're breaths from Panchaia's spicy woods,
What costly Gems enrich Idaspes floods:
All would I give to him that could impart
The least of ease to my corroded heart.
Stormes have their calmes, flowings their ebs, but I
Am the Charybdis of perpiexity
109
This common loss, till all thy tears be spent.
Lock not thy thoughts in silence: cloath thy mind
In aiery garments: while the blust'ring wind
Of greif, doth agitate thy yeilding breast,
Oh how canst thou expect a minuts rest!
Groan thunder then: salute the deafned skies
With integrated sobs: let thy swoln eyes
Be Islands, circled with a Sea of tears:
And in thy Readers hospitable ears
Lodge thy lamenting sounds: that they may flow
As well as thee: and empty out their woe.
What strange confused fragot's this proclaimes
That Helicon's disturb'd? the Thespian dames
Send to the groaning air, their hideous shreiks,
Contunde their brests, and lacerate their cheeks
With Adamantine palms, like Beldams tear
Their Amber-locks, the Musick that I heare
Are Bag-pipe sighs and loud O ganick moanes
Mov'd by the weights of grief, see, see the stones
Ev'n melt away in tears: the Chappel's hung
In mourning vestments: ev'ry eye and tongue
Rings, rings, elegious Sonnets out, the Pewes
Are drench'd in briny puddles. ah! what dewes
Fall from the glazed pictures how the Leed
Doth seem to run abroad now he is dead!
Greif, Aqua-fortis like, corrodes the barrs,
And in his ashes rakes up glitt'ring stars:
The earth is proud (O honorable thing!)
To wear so rich a jewel in her Ring,
And we, sad we, his Pupils, run about
His Tombe, and weep untill our eyes be out:
Why weep we so? alas! our pearly tears
Can only deck his Herse, not in his ears
Drop an enliv'ning power; let's then condole
Our folly in lamenting him, whose soul
Calcined soul, quitting this earth is flown
Into the bosom of the Trine in One:
Where we will leave him, still to be possess'st
Of heav'nly glory, and eternal rest.
That Helicon's disturb'd? the Thespian dames
Send to the groaning air, their hideous shreiks,
Contunde their brests, and lacerate their cheeks
With Adamantine palms, like Beldams tear
Their Amber-locks, the Musick that I heare
Are Bag-pipe sighs and loud O ganick moanes
Mov'd by the weights of grief, see, see the stones
Ev'n melt away in tears: the Chappel's hung
In mourning vestments: ev'ry eye and tongue
Rings, rings, elegious Sonnets out, the Pewes
Are drench'd in briny puddles. ah! what dewes
Fall from the glazed pictures how the Leed
Doth seem to run abroad now he is dead!
110
And in his ashes rakes up glitt'ring stars:
The earth is proud (O honorable thing!)
To wear so rich a jewel in her Ring,
And we, sad we, his Pupils, run about
His Tombe, and weep untill our eyes be out:
Why weep we so? alas! our pearly tears
Can only deck his Herse, not in his ears
Drop an enliv'ning power; let's then condole
Our folly in lamenting him, whose soul
Calcined soul, quitting this earth is flown
Into the bosom of the Trine in One:
Where we will leave him, still to be possess'st
Of heav'nly glory, and eternal rest.
Vivit post funera virtus.
| KOSMOBREVIA[Greek], or the infancy of the world | |