AN ELEGIE UPON THE DEATH OF THE MOST ILLVSTRIOVS AND VICTORIOUS PRINCE GVSTAVUS ADOLPHVS KING OF SWETHLAND &c. COMPOSED IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE FIRST RUMOURS OF HIS DEATH, AND NOW published and dedicated to the memoriall of so renouned a Prince.
WHat strange sad silence, doth the world astound?
Why doth not Fame's still eccho'ng trumpet sound?
She's grown forgetfull, or else hoarse, I fear;
That we, no more victorious sounds can heare.
'Twas but of late; when as the thundring noise,
Of doubled triumphs, conquests, and applause
Fill'd our Horizon, and the aire did ring,
With shouts of praise, to Swedes victorious King.
Was this a dream, or fancied apparition;
And now is vanisht like a fleeting vision?
Could all the world be thus deluded? No.
'Twas surely reall, and no feigned show!
Those bloudie battels, and those dismall fights,
We lately heard, were not like vap'rie sights,
Compos'd of airie breath, which to the eye,
Two dreadfull Armies, grappling do descrie!
These! These were reall, and thy direfull steel,
(Victorious Prince!) shall after ages feel!
And those deep wounds, which in thy furious ire,
Thou did'st inflict by force of thundring fire,
Shall leave wide scarres, upon the German land;
Which shall for ever, to their terrour stand!
This thou hast done allready; and amaz'd
Remotest kingdomes, where thy deeds are blaz'd.
But on a suddain, loe! thou dost appeare,
To stop, in middle of thy full careere!
All tongues are silent, and our greedie eares,
Heare nothing now; but terrours, doubts, and fears!
Or Fame her self is dead; or he that gave
Life unto Fame, is sunk into his grave!
Fame cannot die! Oh! can he die, whose look,
So many thousands dead at once hath struck?
What mortall durst give him a wound, whose eye,
Hath made grimme Death to start, and turn awrie?
Sure he's not dead! Swethlands for grief would roar;
And make their groans heard to our English shore;
If he were dead, whom they have priz'd more deare
Then their own proper lives, and did not fear
To runne like Lions at their Princes words,
Upon the mouthes of Canons, points of Swords!
He's dead I fear! For can he living be,
And we no spoils, nor further conquests see?
Can he be living and not heard to thunder;
To batter cities, and trample kingdomes under?
Whose very soul, was fire Aethereall pure:
Such as no mortall bodies can endure!
His breath was direfull smoke, and from his hands
Flew show'rs of iron-balls, that quell'd whole lands!
Can that Sulphurious dust, more quick then winde,
Once toucht with flame. in prison be combinde?
Not steel, nor iron, nor the hardest brasse,
Can stay its furie for the shortest space!
Though mighty mountains prest this living flame;
Yet would it teare them and an entrance frame,
His Hellish breath, and dismall noise to vent;
Nor would it cease, till all his furie spent.
Thus hath it been with Europes Northern Starre;
And Swedes Victorious Prince, made all for warre:
Whose Spirit toucht with fire from heav'n, did blaze
Like to some Comet, sent for to amaze
And scourge us mortal wights: whose direfull breath
Doth shoot down vengeance, terrours, plagues, and death!
Had Turk, and Tartar, and the Triple crown
That awes the Christian world, and treadeth down,
Monarches, as slaves, themselves in one combin'd;
This Heav'n-sent furie had, like lightning winde,
Shot through them all; and like to scatter'd corn,
Their feeble squadrons, had been rent, and torn:
Till his Celestiall vigour were quite spent;
No Warres, no Ruines could his ire content!
But now his date is out, and his Commission
Is stopt from heav'n with a new Prohition!
He's dead! Oh bitter word! enough to make
Stones for to weep, and iron hearts to ake!
So soon, alasse! In so unwisht an houre,
Is all our joy quell'd, by some secret power!
Why do we not breath forth such dolefull grones,
And powre such melting tears; as should hard stones
Dissolve into salt drops; that they, and we,
Might so expresse one mournfull Elegie!
What! are we spent and drie? I see no teares:
I heare no grones: no wailings pierce my eares!
Oh pardon me! I fear my faltring tongue,
Distract with troubled sorrow doth you wrong!
'Tis slender grief that doth by weeping vent;
And `tis not much, that can by teares be spent!
But this, this sorrow, like a mortall wound,
Strikes deep, and doth our senses quite astound:
Lies like a lump of lead, or heavie weight,
Upon our heart, and presses it so straight,
That neither sigh nor grone can issue thence;
But lies as dead, and quite bereft of sense!
Since then 'tis so: we cannot weep; let's borrow,
From others help, for to expresse our sorrow,
Ye glistring lamps above. ye Northern starres,
That roul about the Pole, your frozen Carres!
In Thetis waves, plunge over head and eares,
That you may have your fill, of brinish teares:
And by sad influence, make the heav'ns to low'r;
And to the earth, send down a weeping show'r!
But chiefly on that place, that cursed ground,
Where Adolph first receiv'd his mortall wound!
Let never grasse, nor verdant hearb grow there;
Nor any tree, nor ground it self appeare.
Let it be all a lake, whose face may look,
Just like the colour of the Infernall brook:
Like pichie Stix, or black-stream'd Acheron;
Or like Cocytus, or dark Phlegethon:
That it may seem to all, a mourning vail,
Which doth the compasse of that ground empale:
And let its murmuring waves, make such a noise,
As may expresse to us, the dolefull voice
Of some, that crie, that roar, that shreik, that groan:
Of some, that mourn, that weep, that wail, that moan!
That after ages, to their children may
Tell this sad storie, when they passe that way.
These fouls do mourn, for Swethlands conqu'ring King:
But these, whose clamours fearfully do ring.
Are such, as in this place, died by his power;
And thus expresse, their horrour to this houre!
Mean while (renowned Prince) sleep thou secure,
No further pains, nor travels to endure!
The dreadfull Cannons, which so oft did roar,
And thunder in thy eares; shall now no more
Disturb thy rest; nor force thee to arise
In suddain hast, glut now with sleep thine eyes!
While that a quire of Angels in a ring,
Shall round about thee blessed musick sing.
FINIS.