Lo, here
I rest,
who living
was adored
with all the honour
Love could have implored:
What earthly pomp might beautify my name,
In pride of glory I enjoyed the same:
A champion ever ready to defend her,
A senator press'd always to commend her : Though with my heart's delight my life is graced, Yet I in peace of death was cross'd at last.
And now entombed here I lie,
A mirror in eternity.
O! WHATSOE'ER thou be that passest by,
Look on this hearse, and weep thy eyelids dry,
The monument of worth, the angel's pleasure,
Which hoardeth glory's rich, invalued treasure;
The relics of a saint, an earthly creature,
Clad in the perfect mould of angel feature;
Who lives even after life, now being dead,
Welcome to heaven, in earth canonized.
The shouts of fame,
Echo his name.
IN blessed peace and soul-united rest,
Here sleeps the carcass of a peer most blest,
Whose downfall all the plots of cursed fight
Could not procure, or terrify his might:
But evermore he tamed the pride of folly,
And castigated drifts of slaves unholy;
Yet death at last with force of vigour grim,
When he had conquer'd many, conquered him.
And here amongst the quiet numbers
Of happy souls, he sweetly slumbers.
THE boast of Britain, and the life of state,
The pith of valour, nobleness innate,
Foes' scourge, friends' hopes, sustainer of the poor, Whom most men did embrace, all men adore.
Fautor of learning, quintessence of arts,
Honour's true livelihood, monarch of hearts,
The sacred offspring of a virtuous womb,
Lies here enshrined in this hallow'd tomb:
From out whose Phoenix dust ariseth
Renown, which earth's whole globe enticeth.
Lo, here Nine Tombs, on every tomb engrav'd
Nine Epitaphs, shewing that worthies nine
For each peculiar one a tomb hath crav'd;
That their deserts, who while he lived did shine,
Might now be monumented in their shrine:
Yet all those Nine no glory hence have gain'd,
For DEVONSHIRE in himself all nine contain'd.
The nine poor figures of a following substance,
Did but present an after-age's mirror:
Who should more fame than they deserv'd advance,
And manifest the truth of that time's error,
Including DEVONSHIRE, earth's admired terror;
For all the poets who have sung of them,
Have but in mystery adored him.
O, now drop eyeballs into sink of mud!
Be harsh the tunes of my unfeather'd muse!
Sorrow, suck up my griefs! consume the blood
Of my youth's mirth! let meagre death infuse
The soul of gladness to untimely news:
Dead is the height of glory, dead is all
The pride of earth which was angelical.
Ah, that the goddess whom in heart I serve,
Though never mine, bright Lycia the cruel,
The cruel subtile would the name deserve
Of lesser wise, and not abuse the jewel
Of wit, which adds unto my flame more fuel:
Her thoughts to elder merits are confined.
Not to the solace of my younger mind.
Be't so! yet on the theme of this I'll spend
The residue of plaints, and ever mourn
The loss of this great Lord, till travails send
More comfort to my wretched heart forlorn,
Who since at home disgraced, abroad is borne
To sigh the remnant of my wearied breath,
In lamentations of his hapless death.
Sheath up the sword of war, for Mars is dead;
Seal up the smoothed lips of eloquence,
For flowing Mercury is buried;
Droop wisdom, Numa's grave intelligence
Is vanished, African's stout eminence
IN DEVONSHIRE lies obscured, for he alone
Exceeded all, they all died in him one.
Charles the Great is dead, who far excell'd
Charles whom former times did call the great;
Charles, who, whilom while on earth he dwell'd,
Adorn'd the exaltation of his seat,
By the alarum of death's grim retreat,
Is muster'd to the camp from whence he came,
Cherubs and seraphims of dateless fame.
O, that a man should ever be created
To eternise his glory here on earth; .
Yet have his pomp of glory soon abated,
Even at the present issue of his birth,
And lose the trophy of that instant mirth:
Here is the guerdon'd meed of victory,
No sooner to achieve, as soon to die.
Is death the reward of a glorious deed;
Is death the fee of valour? Is desert
Repaid with death? Shall honour's gain proceed
By loss of life? O then a coward's heart
Of earthly comfort hath the better part:
Then better live in peace and live, than try
The brunt of conquest, and regardless die.
Die thoughts of such disgrace, die thirst of state;
Die thoughts of empty air'd ambition,
Die thoughts of soaring majesty's elate,
Die inclination to conscript condition;
Die pride of empire, sovereignty's commission:
All that in soul of life may be esteem'd,
Oh die, fate cannot be with bribes redeem'd!
Die portly hunger of eternity,
Die hot desires of unbounded pleasure,
Die greediness of false prosperity,
Die giddy solace of ill-suited leisure,
Die hopes of hoarded canker-eaten treasure:
Ambition, empire, glory, hopes and joy,
For ever die for death will all destroy!
For death will all destroy, as he hath done.
In seising to his strong, remorseless gripe,
All triumphs noble DEVONSHIRE ever won,
Plucking the blossoms of his youth unripe,
And make them yield unto his thankless gripe:
But ah, why should we task his dart uneven,
Who took from earth what was more fit for heaven?
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