AN ELEGY Upon the Decease of the most Incomparable Pious LADY, the PRINCESSE ELIZABETH, VVho Dyed in Carisbrook Castle in the Isle of Wight, Septemb. 8. 1650.
Printed Anno Dom. 1650
BY THE PIOUS MEMORY OF THE MOST UNPARALLELD VIRTUOUS LADY THE PRINCESSE ELIZABETH THIS (UNWORTHY UNFAINED) GRATEFUL COMMEMORATION OF HER SAID HIGHNESSE HOPES TO BE ETERNIZ'D.
AN ELEGY, &c.
THe Virgin Dove her Silver wings hath spread,
And to the sacred Cittadell is fled:
Affecting Heav'ns white Towers better, then
Wight's' fatall Isle, and Cars'brook's loathed Den.
Ah! that hoarse Vote some drowsie Asp did spet
Keener then forked Darts, or Swords new-whet.
Why Thither? Some well-chosen Cell had bin
The likely issue of a courteous sinne.
The law of Pity might meek Saints forbid
In the Dam's milk to seethe the tender Kid.
How quick, how deep a sense! In her nice brest
All Passions were to their Large shape imprest.
The dainty Air doth not so throughly hold
The utmost Marks of wav'ring Hot and Cold.
But oh! Her Father's fall the rest excell'd,
And in her suff'rings the just Sceptre held.
Then Filiall Kindlings flam'd: She in-ward burn'd;
On its sweet self the Pious Rage return'd.
These Wounds now bleed afresh through ev'ry pore
Of her lanc'd Heart; and what by fits before
In broken Swounds did but Detain her breath,
Relapse of Grief matures to a full Death.
Of all the Daughters Humane sorrow bare
None so great Darling, nor so rich an Heir.
Ye that large Meeknesse could all Wrongs asswage,
And Circumscribe their undetermin'd Rage.
Her prudent Heart did each Condition state
High as her birth, and humble as her fate.
But I presume not with rude steps to presse
Into her Closet, and devout Recesse.
Amidst her wakefull Nights, and lonely Dayes,
Hid Conflicts, and unutter'd Groans to raise:
The Vialls of her precious Tear's unseal,
Or trace her winged Sighs, or chafe her Zeal;
When she sunk on low Knees before the God
Tir'd Soul its heavy Burden would unload:
Which may in time, strung on Heav'ns mindfull file,
Tread down Oppression, and redeem the Isle.
I stand aloof: my too much unscal'd Eye
Dares not into these vailed Beauties pry.
My narrow Thought shall not this Praise profane,
Nor by rash Sacriledge some part detain▪
Besides, the Furnace is too hot I find:
The fiery Laver that Baptiz'd her Mind.
Her Cup-full of Red mighty Wine so wreaks,
And flings about, that our frail Bottle breaks.
Not is this Fear a Shame. Trialls are weigh'd:
And pond'rous Crosses on strong Shoulders laid.
He knows who hears in secret: and prevents
Our Works while couch'd but in sincere Intents.
He can articulate the Collected Sense
When dumb Amazement swallows Eloquence.
Who those Afflictions did to her assigne
Sees her Vast Sorrows farre-extended Line:
And to unpity'd anguish lent an Ear
Which humble inward Throbs did more endear.
Now though pale Grief hath cull'd her blooming years,
Planted along the Bank of flowing Tears;
An Orphan scorn'd, and thrall'd to the commands
(Her Dame thrice chang'd) at last of servile hands:
Though she, poor Innocent, in ominous Wight
Must be restrain'd, (which slew by a new slight)
Nor did attain to her dear Mothers Face,
Or Sov'reigne Brothers passionate Embrace.
Yet the just God doth righteous Cryes regard,
And Faith reaps an unfailing sure reward:
For these Black Waters but enhance each Gemme
Which sparkles in her Orient Diadem.
Nor can the riper Sinners hence much boast;
One Royall Captive loos'd, one Hostage lost.
Onely let Gloc'ster feel this weighty stroke,
And now begins to draw in Sorrow's yoke:
His chearfull Inn'cence still smil'd at smart,
As Harden'd came upon Afflictions Dart:
Like some coy Virgins which fond Love deride,
Mocking the Passion that they never try'd:
But now the barbed shaft his Vitalls stain,
And feel sore Vengeance of their long Disdain.
Great Sir! Who can thy Solitudes delight,
Season thy Pleasures, or thy time invite?
Who with Wise Upright Counsell now can chalk,
What way thou shouldst o' [...]e their spread Tramels walk?
Or thee, with near Example and Advice
Into Religion's narrow Path entice?
Sit down and Cry, thy Guide, thy Guide is gone:
Cry, Cry aloud, till God attend thy Moan.
But her Good Name shall sweeten ev'ry Ear;
As flowing Odours roll a fragrant Sphere.
Unenvy'd Glory's he [...] late Ashes crown,
Or foe, or friend, all bring a just renown.
Her Banishers with Joy agast look wan,
Judge their own Counsels, and their Wishes ban.
Vertue delights still to be thus array'd
In the pure Mem'ry of a Princely Maid.
Her Fun'ralls like they should all Cost forbid
Whose hands have rear'd up her own Pyramid.
And her try'd Patience breathes a balmy Air,
Sweet as fum'd Incense, or the Lips of Pray'r.
FINIS.