A poem occasioned on the death of Mr. Henry Purcell, late musician in ordinary to His Majesty by a lover of music. Lover of music. 1696 Approx. 7 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 4 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2007-10 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1). A55240 Wing P2681 ESTC R24058 07944551 ocm 07944551 40629

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 Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A55240) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 40629) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 1211:8) A poem occasioned on the death of Mr. Henry Purcell, late musician in ordinary to His Majesty by a lover of music. Lover of music. 5 p. Printed for John Whitlock, London : 1696. Reproduction of original in the Huntington Library.

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 eng Purcell, Henry, 1659-1695 -- Poetry. Elegiac poetry -- England -- London -- Early works to 1800. 2006-07 Assigned for keying and markup 2006-07 Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2006-09 Sampled and proofread 2006-09 Text and markup reviewed and edited 2007-02 Batch review (QC) and XML conversion

A POEM Occaſioned on the Death of Mr. Henry Purcell, Late Muſician in Ordinary To His MAJESTY.

Quocunque choros agitat mors Muſica dormit. Bat.

By a Lover of Muſick.

LONDON, Printed for John Whitlock, near Stationers-Hall, MDCXCVI.
A POEM On the Death of Mr. Henry Purcell, &c. I. YE Gentle Sphears Ceaſe now your wonted melody, Reſt and ever ſilent be— Nought now remains for Comfort or Relief, But a free vent to our juſt ſource of grief. An untaught Groan beſt language is, For ſuch a diſmal Scene as This. Yet like the dying Swans you firſt may tell, In ſofteſt Muſick to attending Ears, How the Lov'd Strephon liv'd, and how lamented fell: Tell then th' admiring World how often He, Has ev'n charm'd you to exſtaſie, How oft you've envy'd at the praiſe he won, Yet ſmil'd to ſee your ſelves out done. Tell this in diff'rent Notes, in ſuch as he, Was us'd to charm us hear below, that make one Harmony. II. The little Birds throughout the Plains, Repeat their Notes in doleful Strain. In doleful ſtrains they all complain As if they never were to Sing again. Sad P ••• omel amongſt • he reſt As if ſome Story • he relate, Not of her own, but of her Maſters cruel Fate, In mornful Notes her grief expreſt, In careleſs melancholy Lays She •• ng his Praiſe. Now all her Art ſhe trys, Now all her Strength applys, To warble forth an Elegy Sacred to his Memory. She Sings, alas her Songs are all in vain, Nothing can alter Deſtiny, The Swain can ne're return to life again. III. What do I hear, what diſmal Groans, What Sights, what Shreiks, what melancholy Moans, Now ſpread themſelves o're all the Penſive Plains, And tears the breaſts of all the tender Swains, 'Tis for Strephon Dead and gone. Mourn all ye Shepherds, mourn with me your Maſters Fall, With me attend his Funeral, With me adorn his Herſe With never fadeing Garland, never dying Verſe. Alas! no Sounds will now prevail, To tell their melancholy Tale, Since dead is He who made their Songs to live, He their dull numbers could inſpire, With charming Voice, and tuneful Lyre, He life to all, but to himſelf could give. No longer now the Swains unto each other play, Their Arms a croſs, their Heads hung down, Their Oaten Pipes, beſides them thrown, Their Flocks neglected ſtray, Ev'n Pan himſelf o'rewhelm'd with grief, has thrown his Pipe away. IV. See Love himſelf all bath'd in Tears, His Bow he brakes, away his Darts he flings, Then folds his Arms, and hangs his drooping Wings, Venus her ſelf cloſe mourner here appears. No longer now ſhe thinks her ſelf ſecure, But ſighing from her Throne looks down, Her greatneſs cannot long endure Since it's ſupporter's dead and gone; Since that the tuneful Strephon's Fall'n— Now ſilent lyes his Lyre, No longer warms our hearts into deſire, For dead is he who could our Paſſions move, Who beſt could gentle thoughts inſpire, Who beſt could fan the amorous fire, Make us at once ſubmit, and own the Pow'r of Love. V. Gone is the glory of our Age, The Pride and Darling of the Stage. The Theatre his worth well knew, Saw how by him it's greatneſs grew. In him their honour Pride and Glory liv'd, Far as his Soul they now are fled, And ſcarce can ſooner be retriev'd, For all their hopes in him are dead. Whil'ſt he vouchſaf'd to ſtay below They were too bleſt long to continue ſo. But oh! no more the tuneful Strephon's Songs they'l hear, No more his joyful Notes will glad the wondring Theatre. VI. Ye Sons of Phebus write his Elegy But let it be Great as the Subject, ſad as your Calamity, Let every Muſe his Praiſe aloud proclaim And to the diſtant Poles, let Echo ſpread his Fame. Write Epitaphs that ſo The world may know, How much to him ev'n Poetry did owe, For you but ſay, 'tis he that makes you ſing, His Art the Embrio words does to perfection bring. By us the Muſe at firſt conceives, 'tis true, He makes it fit to ſee the light, that gift to him we owe: Nake'd at firſt and rugged they appear, But when by him adorn'd they be, Aſſume a Pomp and Bravery, Nor need they longer bluſh to reach a Prnces Ear. VII. How rigid are the Laws of Fate, And how ſevere the black Decree, For nothing, nothing here is free, But all muſt enter th' Adamantine Gate. The Great, the Good, the Juſt, nay all, muſt come, To Natures dark retireing Room. He! he! alas is gone, Whoſe gentle Airs did make our Numbers live, Who Immortality could give, His Soul to't's firſt aboade away is flown, Blaſted are all our Glories now, Our Lawrels wither as they grow, The Muſe her ſelf forſakes us too. Come then, come quickly come, Let's pay our tears for off'rings at his Tomb. Let us not ſtrive, who beſt deſerves the Bays, He that grieves moſt, beſt claims the Higheſt Praiſe. VIII. Ariſe ye bleſt Inhabitants above, From your immortal Seats ariſe, And on our Wonder, on our Love, Gaze with aſtoniſh'd eyes; Ariſe, Ariſe, make room, The wiſh'd for ſhade is come; Haſt and your ſelves prepare To me the joyful Choriſter, Meet him half way with Songs, ſuch as you ſing, Before the throne of the Eternal King, With welcomes let th' Aetherial Palace ring, Welcome the Gardian Angel ſays, Full of Songs, and full of Bays, Welcome thou art to me, And to theſe Regions of Serenity; Welcome the winged Choire reſounds, While with loud Euges all the ſacred place abounds. Low now above he chants Eternal Lays Above our wonder, and our Praiſe. FINIS.