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An Elegie. Princesse Katherine Borne, Christened, Buried, In One
Day by Richard Lovelace |
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You, that can
haply mixe your joyes with cries,
And weave white Ios
with black Elegies,
Can caroll out a dirge, and in
one breath
Sing to the tune either of life, or death;
You, that can weepe the gladnesse of the spheres,
And
pen a hymne, in stead of inke, with teares;
Here,
here your unproportion'd wit let fall,
To celebrate
this new-borne funerall,
And greete that little
greatnesse, which from th' wombe
Dropt both a load to
th' cradle and the tombe.
Bright soule! teach us,
to warble with what feet
Thy swathing linnen and thy
winding sheet,
Weepe, or shout forth that fonts
solemnitie,
Which at once christn'd and buried thee,
And change our shriller passions with that sound,
First told thee into th' ayre, then to the ground.
Ah, wert thou borne for this? only to call
The
King and Queen guests to your buriall!
To bid good
night, your day not yet begun,
And shew a setting,
ere a rising sun!
Or wouldst thou have thy life a
martyrdom?
Dye in the act of thy religion,
Fit,
excellently, innocently good,
First sealing it with
water, then thy blood?
As when on blazing wings a
blest man sores,
And having past to God through fiery
dores,
Straight 's roab'd with flames, when the same
element,
Which was his shame, proves now his
ornament;
Oh, how he hast'ned death, burn't to be
fryed,
Kill'd twice with each delay, till deified.
So swift hath been thy race, so full of flight,
Like
him condemn'd, ev'n aged with a night,
Cutting all
lets with clouds, as if th' hadst been
Like angels
plum'd, and borne a Cherubin.
Or, in your journey
towards heav'n, say,
Tooke you the world a little in
your way?
Saw'st and dislik'st its vaine pompe, then
didst flye
Up for eternall glories to the skye?
Like a religious ambitious one,
Aspiredst for the
everlasting crowne?
Ah! holy traytour to your
brother prince,
Rob'd of his birth-right and
preheminence!
Could you ascend yon' chaire of state
e're him,
And snatch from th' heire the starry
diadem?
Making your honours now as much uneven,
As
gods on earth are lesse then saints in heav'n.
Triumph! sing triumphs, then! Oh, put on all
Your
richest lookes, drest for this festivall!
Thoughts
full of ravisht reverence, with eyes
So fixt, as when
a saint we canonize;
Clap wings with Seraphins before
the throne
At this eternall coronation,
And teach
your soules new mirth, such as may be
Worthy this
birth-day to divinity.
But ah! these blast your
feasts, the jubilies
We send you up are sad, as were
our cries,
And of true joy we can expresse no more
Thus crown'd, then when we buried thee before.
Princesse in heav'n, forgivenes! whilst we
Resigne
our office to the HIERARCHY.
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