AN ELEGY ON JAMES SCOT, Late Duke of MONMOUTH.
THOU Plague, and Bane of Mortals, Flattery,
Of Humane-kind, half are undone by Thee.
How is th' Unfortunate Wrack't Merchant lost?
From thy false Hope of some Rich Indian Coast,
Betray'd by Thee, to perish in a Wave;
Thine the hid Rock, and Thine his watry Grave.
Why does the Traytor Plot, or Rebel Storm,
And Canting Zealots Church and State Reform?
Led only by Thy Visionary Dreams;
Till in persuit of Crowns and Diadems,
With many a Restless Night and tugging Groan,
They mount a Scaffold whilst they seek a Throne.
Nor by Thee only loaded Gibbets bow,
And yawning Graves attend Thy Fatal Blow;
For even by Thee Aspiring Angels fell▪
False Hopes of Heaven made the first step to Hell.
Such, Monmouth, was Thy Fall; this Tempter stood,
Poysoning thy Ear, and cank'ring all thy Blood;
To thy Fond Eye with Artful Phantoms fill'd
The Treacherous Magnifying Mirrour held;
Show'd a poor Shrub a Royal Cedar-Plant,
And beautifi'd thy Glass to Adamant.
Here, poor lost Monmouth, lay the Fatal Snare,
Thy Life, thy Fame, thy All, were Ship wrackt here.
Once the Bright Leader of a Shining Train,
The Constellations in Great CHARLES his Waine;
Till from thy Forfeit glittering Orb of Light,
By Black Ingratitude, t'Eternal Night,
Too Justly doom'd, and down all headlong driven,
A Falling-Star from thy once Native Heaven.
On what Foundation does Ambition rise?
In all its Luster, Crown'd with Victories,
Yet cemented with Blood, By Treason built,
An Airy Glory rais'd on Solid Guilt:
But Crush'd and Damn'd by Heav'ns revenging Hand,
To Publick Shame, and an Eternal Brand:
What a dull Page in the Black-Book of Fame
Will Monmouth fill with a poor Blasted Name?
Where's all th' Hosannah's of the Shouting Crowd?
Will their kind Sorrows speak but half so loud?
No! wretched Thing, that Popular Wind's blown o'er:
HEAVEN and Great JAMES do their lost Sense restore,
And the old Prince o'th' Air now reigns no more.
Ʋnmourn'd farewel, thy Hearse even unbedew'd
By thy own once Adoring Multitude.
And if a Tear falls from a pittying Eye,
The Mournful Cause does that sad Drop supply,
Is not thou dyed'st, but didst deserve to Die.
Deserv'd indeed: for never Man possest
Of such vast Royal Smiles, so rais'd, so blest,
Apostatiz'd like Thee.—
Nay, even thy Tears had learn'd to forge so well,
That when at CHARLES and JAMES's Feet they fell,
Thy very Penitence play'd the Infidel.
So fal'n from Faith, thou turn'dst Perfideous too,
Even to thy own assisting Rebel Crew;
Whilst thy Argyle and Rumbold's latest Breath
Damn'd thy false Vows and Curst Thee even in Death.
But let thy Buried Faults forgotten lie,
And Monmouth's Crimes with bleeding Monmouth die.
And to allow Thee still thy Just Applause,
We'll praise thy Valour, though we loath thy Cause.
Nay, and to make thy Fame yet larger Room,
And strew some Sweets even on a Rebel's Tomb;
Thy Storm but rose to drive our Clouds away,
And thy Black Morn began our Halcyon Day.
Whilst Thy Rebellion does our Bliss compleat,
A Kingdom Happy made, and Monarch Great;
For Treason's to Eternal Silence doom'd,
And grinning Faction in thy Ʋrne entomb'd;
Whilst Angels to Great JAMES his Guard move down,
And Jacob's Ladder waits on Caesar's Crown.
Some Honour then is even to Treason due;
So Judas's Crime some Glory challeng'd too.
Whilst even that Guilt, where the perfideous Slave
Betray'd his GOD and Master to a Grave.
Was Instrumental a whole World to save.
This may be Printed,
July 16. 1685.
R. L. S.
LONDON: Printed for C. W. and are to be sold by Walter Davis in Amen-Corner. 1685.