On the Sad Loss of Robert Lord Brook, Elegy
On the ſad Loſse of the truly Honourable ROBERT Lord BROOK:
An Elegie, To his Vertuous and Noble Lady.
SWEET LADY,
Can your weeping Eye behold
A paper, ſadly offer'd, where 'tis told,
Your Lord is Dead? And ſo Vntimely too?
Treble to You, to VsUs a double Woe.
'Tis Sad to Say; Sadder to you to Heare:
Vnhappy he, muſt be the Meſſenger.
Yet ſince you Know ſo True, ſo Sad a Woe,
Give leave to let you know, We know it too.
we firſt your Loſſe, and then your Griefe bemone;
(Some Eaſe, in Sadneſſe, not to weep Alone:)
Our Tears (ambitious) make their ſad addreſſe;
(we'd bear a part, that You might weep the leſſe.)
Give leave, we pray, to joyne in Tears with You,
(Yet weep we ſhall, whether with leave, or no:)
And make this paper bleſt to kiſſe your hand,
From him who's preſt,
MADAME, At Your Command, JOHN WALLIS.
AN ELEGIE On the much Lamented Death of the Right Honorable ROBERT Lord BROOK.
MIght I have ſeen what was deſir'd by all:
How glad would I, or not compoſe at all,
Or in another ſtile; and not reherſe
Heroïck Worth in Elegeïck Verſe.
Or elſe, might I, and they to whom as dear,
Weep him Alive that's Dead, though every teare
Were teares of Bloud, how willing would we poure
A farre more precious, then love's Golden, Shower
On this Sad Object, on this Bloudy ſight,
And with our teares or Guild, or waſh him White.
But Now (unhappy) cannot but complain,
With ſad bemoaning tears, (though tears in vain)
What's paſt recall, and we, though no redreſſe
Can be expected, muſt not hold our peace.
But how (alas!) ſhould I begin to ſpeak,
(Where all Hyperbole's will ſeem too weak
To equalize) in Meaſures to expreſſe
What knows no other meaſure but Exceſſe?
Or who can Bound over-abounding Tears,
Within the ſtreightneſſe of an even Verſe?
If then perhaps I hardly weep in Rhime;
If not in Conſort; (Tears can keep no Time)
If no melodious Harmony be ſhewn;
Think but, 'Tis Hard, to put a Teare in Tune.
(Yet harder, not to Weep.—) Imperfect Tones
Serve well enough to ſignifie our Grones.
A Long, a Large, are all the Notes we know;
(Minim and Sembrief Reſts are long enow)
Our Accents tuned to the Higheſt Key;
(And yet our Sighs deeper then Gam-ut be:)
Nor curious are to make the Conſort ſweet,
That all keep equall Time, that Cloſes meet;
None tunes his Voyce unto anothers String;
(This Verſe was made to Weep, and not to Sing)
All weep a Part, but no Accord can keep,
(Save onelyonly thus, That all agree to weep;)
Oft weep a Sharp, when our ſad Thoughts be Flat;
If Diſcords oft appear, yet wonder not;
Some Harmony may Diſproportion give,
Diſcordant Accents ſhew Concent in Grief.
Then weep we muſt. That Heart is too too hard,
That in a publike Sadneſſe would be ſpar'd.
Publike, I ſay, yet more then Common, Grief;
(Elſe might a Common Cordiall yeeld relief,)
'Tis not a Lady mourns, not I, alone,
I am but Speaker of a Kingdoms mone:
A Kingdomes publike loſſe it is; all thoſe
Have loſt in Him, that had but ought to looſe.
Yea thoſe (as yet) that count his Loſſe a Gain,
Will (after) ſay, 'Twas pitty Brook was ſlain.
Such Meekneſſe lodg'd in a ſo Noble Breaſt;
Such Candour mixt with ſuch Heroickneſſe;
His Thoughts ſo Low joyn'd with Deſerts ſo High;
Practiſe of Truth as well as Theory;
Not quick (as ſome) to Bid and ſlow to Act,
Praiſing to others what themſelves detrect;
His thoughts the ſame with what he did pretend;
A Courſe direct as well as upright End;
An Active Vigour with Integrity,
Strait Aims purſu'd not with an Oblique Eye:
Should I or this or more dilate, yet leſſe
Is ſaid in Words, then what our Tears expreſſe.
How gladly would my pen perſiſt to tell,
How willing would my pleaſed Fancie dwell
On this ſo ſweet a ſubject, as to ſay
How Good he was, how well deſerving He;
His Learning, Wiſdome, Worth, and Piety,
Worthy how long to live, how late to dye;
To ſpeak his Praiſe, of his Deſerts to boaſt:
But that 'tis ſad to think, All this is loſt.
Counting His Worth, we count our Loſſes too;
That we Admire, This doth encreaſe our Woe.
All this, and more then this, is loſt in One,
All this is loſt when Noble Brook is gone.
Might ſad intreating Tears at any hand
Availe with Death, or who doth Death command,
To ſpare his Life; what flouds of theſe had been,
To purchaſe it, long ſince beſtow'd on him▪
For thoſe which now lament him caught away,
With more advantage might obtaine his ſtay.
Or might ſome Others death have Him excus'd,
There were, no doubt, who would not have refus'd
To reſcue him, and purchaſe by their Death,
That He (more worthy) might have longer breath.
But no entreaties can (though ne're ſo juſt)
Either Reprieve or Ranſome him: But muſt
Himſelfe, arreſted, (None by Proxy Dies)
Appeare in Perſon: Death accepts no price.
If naked Death alone, who can withſtand?
Much more appearing with an Armed hand.
But is there left us no return from death?
Doth not each breath we breathe breathe out our breath,
Which yet the next recalls? Not ſo in all:
This laſt exſpiring breath is paſt recall.
Which if a Single Loſſe, the loſſe were leſſe;
(Though Great) but when it forwards the ſucceſſe
Of our contrived woe; What ſhall we ſay?
May He be more bewail'd that's caught away,
Or we that ſtay behinde, reſerv'd to ſee
The ſadder ſequel of that Tragedy?
He ſhall not ſee (whatever we may doe)
A Glorious Kingdomes ſad approaching Woe.
He ſhall not ſee, not ſeeing ſhall bemone
An (once renowned) Land ſoone overthrown.
This ſhall not now perplex his reſting Eye,
Bleſt with a better ſight than Miſery.
But what remaineth Us we cannot ſee;
The ſafer he, the neerer danger wee:
And what approaching danger might deſcry,
In loſing his, the Kingdome loſt an Eye.
An Eye ſo deare, had we but known its price,
It had beene ranſom'd, though with both our Eyes.
How glad might we (a happy change 't had beene)
Weep out our owne, could we but weep his in.
But weep we may; yet Teares will nought availe:
Who grants no Quarter, will accept no Baile.
Nor can diſtinguiſh by our different teares,
'Twixt Poore and Noble; all in death are peeres.
Then why complaine? could we or leſſe expect,
Or think for Him Death would decline his tract?
Is't not determin'd, all muſt here agree?
Then ſure He muſt, as well as others, die.
'Tis true, he muſt: But muſt he die ſo ſoone?
Before his Strength, before his Work be done?
If ſo; muſt one ſo meane effect his end?
Shall Hector die not by Achilles hand?
If die he muſt; if ſo untimely too;
Is Noble Bloud ſpilt by we know not who?
Then weep we may; not that we think't unfit,
(Not envy Heaven to Him, or Him to it)
That he, of whom the Earth unworthy was,
Should be advanc't to a more Happy place:
But that we want his help, or to compoſe
Our ſad diſtracted times, or quell our foes.
When thoſe pull down that ought to underprop;
When Forraign ſtarvelings come to eat Us. up.
When Popiſh Armies (more then one) in ſight,
Do for the Proteſtant Religion fight,
(To take it from us;) when (a viperous brood)
Who ſometimes ſuckt our Breaſts, now ſuck our Bloud,
(Be it a poiſon'd draught;) and thus requite,
For what they have, and what expect they might.
Like her that once (be their ſucceſſe as bad)
A precious Hen (though undeſerved) had,
That laid a Golden Egge each day but once,
Willing (ſo greedy) to have all at once
By a compendious way, ſhe kild her Hen,
Thinking to finde thoſe precious Eggs within:
As was her Gain, let their Succeſſe be ſuch;
So diſappointed; not, prevaile ſo much.
The readieſt way, they thought, by which they might
Effect their Plot, was to put out our Sight:
A tender Eye muſt be the mark deſign'd:
'Twas (ſure) they meant to make Religion Blind.
No marvell then: They thought (as well they might)
The way to Darkneſſe was to quench the Light.
A Moat, perhaps, they might pretend to ſee,
Which only to remove, their care ſhould be;
And, firſt concluding, he might ſee amiſſe,
They only meant to work a cure by this.
But if a Beam they could as ſoone deſcry,
They might have ſeen, theirs was the Evill Eye:
(Which if't offend they may pluck out) not His,
Which ſaw aright, though ſaw what was amiſſe.
Truth is, indeed, they thought it ſaw too much,
And therefore pluckt it out, their rage was ſuch:
Loth to be ſeen they were, and could not brook,
Their deeds of darkneſſe he ſhould over-look:
But take his Eye from Him, and Him from Us,
Their ends the better to accompliſh thus.
But muſt we Die? And Unrevenged too?
By Such a Hand? Such miſcreants work our Woe?
Let me die firſt, and not ſurvive to ſee,
Before I die, ſad Englands obſequy.
'Tis Death to Think; 'tis Worſe then death to See;
To bear a Part, is the leaſt death of Three.
This to prevent, who ſaw too much before,
He clos'd his Eyes, willing to ſee no more.
Yet firſt bewail'd our woe with Tears of Bloud,
(A ſad prefage) 'twas the laſt thing he did.
Anagram.
GREVILIUS.
VERGILIUS.
And if *Sic ſcribendum cont…ndit Politianus, cum aliis.VERGILIUS, why not MARO too?
Our AMOR ſure he was, we Lov'd him ſo.
FINIS.
End of the text · John Wallis, On the Sad Loss of Robert Lord Brook (1643)