An elegie upon the death of the mirrour of magnanimity, the right Honourable Robert Lord Brooke Lord Generall of the forces of the counties of VVarwick, and Stafford, who was slain by a musket shot at the siege of Liechfield, the second day of March, 1642.

An elegie upon the death of the mirrour of magnanimity, the right Honourable Robert Lord Brooke Lord Generall of the forces of the counties of VVarwick, and Stafford, who was slain by a musket shot at the siege of Liechfield, the second day of March, 1642.

Table of contents

AN ELEGIE UPON THE DEATH OF THE MIRROVR Of Magnanimity, the right Honourable Robert Lord Brooke; Lord Generall of the Forces of the Counties of VVarwick, and Stafford, who was slain by A Musket shot at the siege of Liechfield, the second day of March, 1642.

§

[Page]

AN ELEGIE UPON THE DEATH OF THE MIRROVR Of Magnanimity, the right Honourable Robert Lord Brooke; Lord Generall of the Forces of the Counties of VVarwick, and Stafford, who was slain by A Musket shot at the siege of Liechfield, the second day of March, 1642.

BAck blushing morne, to thine Eternall bed,

Ruffle for ever the tresses of thine head

In some thick Cloud, and thou whose raies do burn

The Center of the Universe, returne:

For if thy head beyond its Porch appeares,

Thy selfe, thy self must needs melt into teares.

Bright Saint thy pardon, if my dolefull Verse

Do seem in sighing ore thy glorious Hearse

To envy death; for fame it selfe now weares

Griefes Livery, and only speakes in teares.

Brave Brooke is dead, like Lightning, which no part

O 'th body touches, but first strikes the heart,

This word hath murdred all; it can a shower

Enforce from every eye, it hath a power

To alter natures course, how else should all

Run wilde with mourning, and distracted fall.

Is't not a grosse unttuth to say, thy breath

Expir'd too soon? or that impartiall Death

Thy Corps too soon surpriz'd? No, if thy yeares

Be numbred by thy Vertues, or our teares,

Thou didst the old Methusalem outlive;

Though Time not forty yeares account can give

Of thine abode on earth, yet every hower

Of thine unpattern'd life, by Vertues power

A yeare in length surpast, each well-spent day,

The body maketh young, the soule makes gray.

Ah cruell Death! who with one cursed Ball,

Didst make the Atlas of our State to fall,

In one thou all hast slaine, whose death alone,

A death will be unto a Million.

Could none but his sweet Nectard blood appease

The fire-sprung Bullets heat? Must it needs seaze

His sacred face, it selfe there to enshrine,

Not in an earthly, but a Tombe divine.

See lucklesse Liechfield that thou do not hide

The precious blood, which from the wound did slide

At this Lords death, it may not Cloister'd be

In thy fraile earth, alwayes impuritie

It did abhor, therefore in Sacrifice,

Send it unto its head above the skies,

And for an Altar whereon it to lay,

A thousand thousand soules through griefe this day

Themselves to death have wept, whom thou maist take,

And them conjoyne thine Altar for to make.

But lift not up thine head, least that the skies

In weeping showres of blood put out thine eyes.

And is this blessed Brooke (whose Cristall streames

Sweld with such store of Grace, whose blissefull beames

Enlightned all) is it so soone drawne drie,

Leaving its ancient current, to fill each eye

With mournefull teares, surely in Paradise

It selfe it now dischannels, where no vice

Or shade of it appeares, a place most pure,

Where all such Saints for ever must endure.

I might relate thine actions here on earth,

Thy mysterie of life, thy noblest birth,

Outshin'd by nobler vertue, but how farre

Th' hast tane thy journey 'bove the highest starre

I cannot speake, nor whether thou art in

Commission with a Throne, or Cherubin.

I might unto the world, great Lord repeate,

Thine owne brave story, and tell it how great

Thou wert in thy minds Empire, and how all

Who out live thee, see but the Funerall

Of glory: and if yet some vertuous be,

They but weake apparitions are of thee.

Thine actions were most just, thy words mature,

And every scean of life from sin so pure,

That scarce in its whole history we can

Finde Vice enough to say thou wert but man.

'Tis past all mortals power, then much more mine,

To tell what vertues dwelt within this shrine,

Yet if illiterate persons walk this way,

And ask what jewell glorifies this clay,

Say, good Brookes ashes this Tombe hath in keeping,

Then lead them forth, lest they grow blind withweeping.

Tell but his name, no more, that shall suffice,

To draw downe floods of teares from dryest eyes,

Our griefes are infinite, therefore my Muse,

Cast Anchor here, mine eyes cannot effuse

Any more teares, this for thy comfort know,

Fate cannot give us such another blow.

Ex opere (praesertim) Henrici Haringtoni, [...]

§

§

London printed for H. O. Anno Dom. 1642.

Information about this book

Title statement

An elegie upon the death of the mirrour of magnanimity, the right Honourable Robert Lord Brooke Lord Generall of the forces of the counties of VVarwick, and Stafford, who was slain by a musket shot at the siege of Liechfield, the second day of March, 1642.

Harington, Henry, fl. 1642.

Edition statement

1642

Publication

Publisher

Text Creation Partnership,

Place of publication

Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) :

Date

2008-09 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1).

ID [DLPS]

A87113

ID [STC]

Wing H769

ID [STC]

Thomason 669.f.6[119]

ID [STC]

ESTC R212625

ID [EEBO-CITATION]

99871228

ID [PROQUEST]

99871228

ID [VID]

160979

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This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal. The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.

Series

Early English books online.

Notes

(EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A87113)

Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 160979)

Images scanned from microfilm: (Thomason Tracts ; 245:669f6[119])

Source

— An elegie upon the death of the mirrour of magnanimity, the right Honourable Robert Lord Brooke Lord Generall of the forces of the counties of VVarwick, and Stafford, who was slain by a musket shot at the siege of Liechfield, the second day of March, 1642., Harington, Henry, fl. 1642..

Extent

1 sheet ([1] p.)

printed for H.O.,. London :: anno Dom. 1642 [i.e., 1643]. (Verse - "Back blushing morne, to thine eternall bed,".) (Signed at end: Ex opere (præsertim) Henrici Haringtoni, philologo.) (With heavy black woodcut border.) (Annotation on Thomason copy: "March. 16".) (Reproduction of the original in the British Library.)

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