Lucasta [93]
in tune, when thou dost dye, At once their universal harmony? But where Apollo's harp (with murmur) laid, Had to the stones a melody convey'd, They by some pebble summon'd would reply In loud results to every battery; Thus do we come unto thy marble room, To eccho from the musick of thy tombe. May we dare speak thee dead, that wouldest be In thy remove only not such as we? No wonder, the advance is from us hid; Earth could not lift thee higher then it did! And thou, that didst grow up so ever nigh, Art but now gone to immortality! So near to where thou art, thou here didst dwell, The change to thee is less perceptible. Thy but unably-comprehending clay, To what could not be circumscrib'd, gave way, And the more spacious tennant to return, Crack'd (in the two restrain'd estate) its urn. That is but left to a successive trust; The soul's first buried in his bodies dust. Thou more thy self, now thou art less confin'd, Art not concern'd in what is left behind; While we sustain the losse that thou art gone, Un-essenc'd in the separation; And he that weeps thy funerall, in one Is pious to the widdow'd nation. And under what (now) covert must I sing, Secure as if beneath a cherub's wing; When thou hast tane thy flight hence, and art nigh In place to some related hierarchie, Where a bright wreath of glories doth but set Upon thy head an equal coronet; And thou, above our humble converse gon, Canst but be reach'd by contemplation. Our lutes (as thine was touch'd) were vocall by, And thence receiv'd the soul by sympathy, That did above the threds inspiring creep, And with soft whispers broke the am'rous sleep; Which now no more (mov'd with the sweet surprise) Awake into delicious rapsodies; But with their silent mistress do comply, And fast in undisturbed slumbers lye. How from thy first ascent thou didst disperse A blushing warmth throughout the universe, While near the morns Lucasta's fires did glow, And to the earth a purer dawn did throw. We ever saw thee in the roll of fame Advancing thy already deathless name; And though it could but be above its fate, Thou would'st, however, super-errogate. Now as in Venice, when the wanton State Before a Spaniard spread their crowded plate, He made it the sage business of his eye To find the root of the wild treasury; So learn't from that exchequer but the more To rate his masters vegetable ore. Thus when the Greek and Latin muse we read, As but the<110.1> cold inscriptions of the dead, We to advantage then admired thee, Who did'st live on still with thy poesie; And in our proud enjoyments never knew The end of the unruly wealth that grew. But now we have the last dear ingots gain'd, And the free vein (however rich) is drein'd; Though what thou hast bequeathed us, no space Of this worlds span of time shall ere embrace. But as who sometimes knew not to conclude Upon the waters strange vicissitude, Did to the ocean himself commit, That it might comprehend what could not it, So we in our endeavours must out-done Be swallowed up within thy Helicon. Thou, who<110.2> art layd up in thy precious cave, And from the hollow spaces of thy grave, We still may mourn in tune, but must alone Hereafter hope to quaver out a grone; No more the chirping sonnets with shrill notes Must henceforth volley from our treble throtes; But each sad accent must be humour'd well To the deep solemn organ of thy cell. Why should some rude hand carve thy sacred stone, And there incise a cheap inscription? When we can shed the tribute of our tears So long, till the relenting marble wears; Which shall such order in their cadence keep, That they a native epitaph shall weep; Untill each letter spelt distinctly lyes, Cut by the mystick droppings of our eyes. El. Revett.<110.3>
<110.1> Original has THE BUT.
<110.2> Original has OW.
<110.3> I have already pointed out, that the author of these truly wretched lines was probably the same person, on whose MORAL AND DIVINE POEMS Lovelace has some verses in the LUCASTA. The poems of E. R. appear to be lost, which, unless they were far
<110.1> Original has THE BUT.
<110.2> Original has OW.
<110.3> I have already pointed out, that the author of these truly wretched lines was probably the same person, on whose MORAL AND DIVINE POEMS Lovelace has some verses in the LUCASTA. The poems of E. R. appear to be lost, which, unless they were far