An ELEGIE upon the Death of King CHARLS.
BRight Soul! instruct us Mortals how to mourn,
How to approach, yet not profane thine Urn.
To come with Humane Sighs, or Eyes,
Were sure too bold a Sacrifice.
Lest a foul tear or nauseous gust
Should scatter or defile thy Dust,
We should in homage to thy Shrine
Weep out our humour Crystalline,
Which there congeal'd might Sapphirs turn
By borrowing Lustre from thine Urn.
They only know such Losses to Condole,
Who can for every Sigh, breathe out a Soul.
Bright Soul! instruct us to that just respect
With which thy Hallowed Ashes must be deckt.
To build them Trophees were unjust:
Thy Vertues canopy thy Dust.
To write upon them were unsafe:
Thy name is thy best Epitaph.
To carve thy Statue were amisse:
Thy Book thy best Colossus is.
T'inclose thy Reliques were uneven:
No Shrine is fit for them, but Heaven.
Can Nothing lend thee Lustre? may we turn
Nothing, if nothing can adorn thine Urn.
CHORUS.
Hark, hark, how each Orb his Tune doth keep,
While Peals of Angels ring;
And since we cannot fitly weep,
Let's try how we can sing.
Since Charles advanc'd beyond the King,
Is plac'd above his wain,
'Twere sure a sacrilegious thing
To weep him down again.
Then let our accents all conspire
With Heav'ns loud harmonyes;
While this short Anthem fills the Quire,
He's welcome to the Skyes.