MEMENTO MORI
AN ELEGY ON THE Death of the most Illustrious LORD, THE EARL of St. ALBANS: Who Departed this Life the first Day of this Instant January, 1684.
GO stop the swift-wing'd Moments in their flight,
Arrest the Envious Course of Day and Night;
Alas! it will not be, we strive in vain,
Not all our Art can one poor Hour regain:
TIME flyes in haste to meet Eternity,
As Rivers to the Bosome of the Sea,
There to be lost; nor can we bribe the stay
Of the least Minute, to prolong the Day,
Which is by Fate ordain'd to be our last,
VVithout reverse, when once the Doom is past.
For if there cou'd have been the least Reprieve
To Mortal Breath, thou had'st been still alive;
St. ALBANS still, had blest our wondring Eyes,
VVho now the Tyrant Death's pale Captive lies.
Let us contemplate thee (brave Soul) and tho'
VVe cannot track the way which thou didst go
In thy Celestial Journey, and our Heart
Expansion want, to think what now thou art,
How bright and wide thy Glories, yet we may
Remember thee as thou wert in thy Clay;
Great without Title, in thy self alone,
A mighty Lord, thou stood'st oblieg'd to none
But Heaven and thy self, for that great worth
VVhich the propitious Stars that rul'd thy Birth
Inspir'd into thy Noble Soul, and Thou
Not wanting to thy self, did'st make it grow
To such prodigious height, thou wast become
So truly Glorious, that struck Envy Dumb.
All Differences did in thy praise conspire,
And ev'n thy Foes, if such cou'd be, admire
Thy Noble Life, which like the constant Sun
Did in the same Ecliptic always run
Ever most loyal to the Royal Cause,
VVhich from the Heaven of Heavens its Tule draws;
VVhere now thou liv'st, free'd from th'uncertain sport
Of Time and Fortune, in the Starry Court,
A Glorious Potentate; while we below,
But fashion woes to mittigate our woe.
And now my sorrows follow thee, I tread
The Milky way, and see the Snowy Head
Of Atlas far below, while all the high.
Swoln Buildings seem but Attoms to my eye;
How small seems greatness here? how! not a span
His Empire who commands the Ocean,
Both that which boasts so much its mighty Ore,
And th other which with Pearl hath pav'd its shore.
Nor can it greater seem, when this great All,
For which Men quarrel so, is but a Ball
Cast down into the ayr, to sport the Star;
And all our general Ruines, mortal wars,
Depopulated States, caus'd by their sway,
And Mans so reverend wisdom but their play,
By thee St. Albans living, we did learn
The art of life, and by thy light discern
The truth which Men dispute; but by thee Dead
VVer taught upon the worlds gay pride to tread,
And that way sooner Master it, than he
To whom both Indies tributary be:
Thus shall we gain by Death, while we Deplore
His Fate, remembring how great and good
St. Abans was, and yet but flesh and blood
As we; how should the brave example move
On kindled Souls, and lift us up above
Low-thoughted Care of dull Mortality,
Since, if as Good, we shall be Great as He.
The EPITAPH.
HAil! Sacred House, in wh [...]ch his Reliques Sleep,
Blest Marble, give me leave t' approa [...]h and Weep:
Ʋnto thy Self, great Spirit, I will R [...]peat
Thy Own brave STORY: tell thy Self how Great
Thou wert in Mind's Empire, and how all
Who Out-Live Thee, see but the FƲNERAL
Of Glory; and if yet some Vertuous be,
They but the Apparitions are of Thee.
Printed for I. Deacon, at the Angel in Guilt-spur-street, without New-Gate, 1684.