SACRED
To the Memory of the
AUTHOR:
By several of his Friends.
Collected and Published
BY
D. P. L.
NUNQUAM EGO TE VITA FRATER AMBILIOR
ADSPICIAM POSTHAC; AT CERTE SEMPER AMABO.
Catullus.
LONDON, Printed 1660.
ELEGIES.
TO THE MEMORY OF MY WORTHY FRIEND
COLL. RICHARD LOVELACE.108.1
To pay my love to thee, and pay it so,
As honest men should what they justly owe,
Were to write better of thy life, then can
The assured'st pen of the most worthy man.
Such was thy composition, such thy mind,
Improv'd from vertue, and from vice refin'd;
Thy youth an abstract of the world's best parts,
Invr'd to arms and exercis'd to arts,
Which, with the vigour of a man, became
Thine and thy countries piramids of fame.
Two glorious lights to guide our hopeful youth
Into the paths of honour and of truth.
These parts (so rarely met) made up in thee,
What man should in his full perfection be:
So sweet a temper into every sence
And each affection breath'd an influence,
As smooth'd them to a calme, which still withstood
The ruffling passions of untamed blood,
Without a wrinckle in thy face, to show
Thy stable breast could a108.2 disturbance know.
In fortune humble, constant in mischance;
Expert in both, and both serv'd to advance
Thy name by various trialls of thy spirit,
And give the testimony of thy merit.
Valiant to envy of the bravest men,
And learned to an undisputed pen;
Good as the best in both and great, but yet
No dangerous courage nor offensive wit.
These ever serv'd the one for to defend,
The other, nobly to advance thy friend,
Under which title I have found my name
Fix'd in the living chronicle of fame
To times succeeding: yet I hence must go,
Displeas'd I cannot celebrate thee so.
But what respect, acknowledgement and love,
What these together, when improv'd, improve:
Call it by any name (so it express
Ought like a tribute to thy worthyness,
And may my bounden gratitude become)
LOVELACE, I offer at thy honour'd tomb.
And though thy vertues many friends have bred
To love thee liveing, and lament thee dead,
In characters far better couch'd then these,
Mine will not blott thy fame, nor theirs encrease.
'Twas by thine own great merits rais'd so high,
That, maugre time and fate, it shall not dye.
Sic flevit.
Charles Cotton.
108.1 These lines may be found, with some verbal variations, in the poems of Charles Cotton, 1689, p. 481-2-3.
108.2 This reading is adopted from Cotton's Poems, 1689, p. 482. In LUCASTA we read NO DISTURBANCE.
UPON THE POSTHUME AND PRECIOUS POEMS
OF THE NOBLY EXTRACTED GENTLEMAN MR. R. L.109.1
The rose and109.2 other fragrant flowers smell best,
When they are pluck'd and worn in hand or brest,
So this fair flow'r of vertue, this rare bud
Of wit, smells now as fresh as when he stood;
And in these Posthume-Poems lets us know,
He on109.3 the banks of Helicon did grow.
The beauty of his soul did correspond
With his sweet out-side: nay, it went109.4 beyond.
Lovelace, the minion109.5 of the Thespian dames,
Apollo's darling, born with Enthean flames,
Which in his numbers wave and shine so clear,
As sparks refracted from109.6 rich gemmes appear;
Such flames that may inspire, and atoms cast,
To make new poets not like him in hast.109.7
Jam. Howell.
109.1 These lines, originally printed as above, were included by Payne Fisher in his collection of Howell's Poems, 1663, 8vo., where they may be found at p. 126. Fisher altered the superscription in his ill-edited to "Upon the Posthume-POEMS of Mr. Lovelace."
109.2 WITH—Howell's Poems.
109.3 THAT HE UPON—ibid.
109.4 IF NOT GO BEYOND—ibid.
109.5 Fr. MIGNON, darling.
109.6 So in Howell's Poems. LUCASTA has IN.
109.7 "Such sparks that with their atoms may inspire
The reader with a pure POETICK fire."
Howell's POEMS.
AN ELEGIE,
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MY LATE HONOURED FRIEND, COLLONELL RICHARD LOVELACE.
Pardon (blest shade), that I thus crowd to be
'Mong those that sin unto thy memory,
And that I think unvalu'd reliques spread,
And am the first that pillages the dead;
Since who would be thy mourner as befits,
But an officious sacriledge commits.
How my tears strive to do thee fairer right,
And from the characters divide my sight.
Untill it (dimmer) a new torrent swells,
And what obscur'd it, falls my spectacles
Let the luxurious floods impulsive rise,
As they would not be wept, but weep the eyes,
The while earth melts, and we above it lye
But the weak bubbles of mortalitie;
Until our griefs are drawn up by the Sun,
And that (too) drop the exhalation.
How in thy dust we humble now our pride,
And bring thee a whole people mortifi'd!
For who expects not death, now thou art gone,
Shows his low folly, not religion.
Can the poetick heaven still hold on
The golden dance, when the first mover's gon?
And the snatch'd fires (which circularly hurl'd)
In their strong rapture glimmer to the world,
And not stupendiously rather rise
The tapers unto these solemnities?
Can the chords move 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 the110.1 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, who110.2 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 superior to the present specimen, cannot be regarded as a great calamity.
AN ELEGIE.
Me thinks, when kings, prophets, and poets dye,
We should not bid men weep, nor ask them why,
But the great loss should by instinct impair
The nations, like a pestilential ayr,
And in a moment men should feel the cramp
Of grief, like persons poyson'd with a damp.
All things in nature should their death deplore,
And the sun look less lovely than before;
The fixed stars should change their constant spaces,
And comets cast abrtheir flagrant111.1 faces.
Yet still we see princes and poets fall
Without their proper pomp of funerall;
Men look about, as if they nere had known
The poets lawrell or the princes crown;
Lovelace hath long been dead, and he111.2 can be
Oblig'd to no man for an elegie.
Are you all turn'd to silence, or did he
Retain the only sap of poesie,
That kept all branches living? must his fall
Set an eternal period upon all?
So when a spring-tide doth begin to fly111.3
From the green shoar, each neighbouring creek grows dry.
But why do I so pettishly detract
An age that is so perfect, so exact?
In all things excellent, it is a fame
Or glory to deceased Lovelace name:
For he is weak in wit, who doth deprave
Anothers worth to make his own seem brave;
And this was not his aim: nor is it mine.
I now conceive the scope of their designe,
Which is with one consent to bring and burn
Contributary incence on his urn,
Where each mans love and fancy shall be try'd,
As when great Johnson or brave Shakespear dyed.
Wits must unite: for ignorance, we see,
Hath got a great train of artillerie:
Yet neither shall nor can it blast the fame
And honour of deceased Lovelace name,
Whose own LUCASTA can support his credit
Amongst all such who knowingly have read it;
But who that praise can by desert discusse
Due to those poems that are posthumous?
And if the last conceptions are the best,
Those by degrees do much transcend the rest;
So full, so fluent, that they richly sute
With Orpheus lire, or with Anacreons lute,
And he shall melt his wing, that shall aspire
To reach a fancy or one accent higher.
Holland and France have known his nobler parts,
And found him excellent in arms and arts.
To sum up all, few men of fame but know,
He was TAM MARTI, QUAM MERCURIO.111.4
111.1 Burning.
111.2 Original has WE.
111.3 A fine image!
111.4 The motto originally employed by George Gascoigne, who, like Lovelace, wielded both the sword and the pen.
TO HIS NOBLE FRIEND CAPT. DUDLEY LOVELACE UPON HIS EDITION OF HIS BROTHERS POEMS.
Thy pious hand, planting fraternal bayes,
Deserving is of most egregious praise;
Since 'tis the organ doth to us convey
From a descended sun so bright a ray.
Clear spirit! how much we are bound to thee
For this so great a liberalitie,
The truer worth of which by much exceeds
The western wealth, which such contention breeds!
Like the Infusing-God, from the well-head
Of poesie you have besprinkled
Our brows with holy drops, the very last,
Which from your Brother's happy pen were cast:
Yet as the last, the best; such matchlesse skill
From his divine alembick did distill.
Your honour'd Brother in the Elyzian shade
Will joy to know himself a laureat made
By your religious care, and that his urn
Doth him on earth immortal life return.
Your self you have a good physician shown
To his much grieved friends and to your own,
In giving this elixir'd medecine,
For greatest grief a soveraign anodine.
Sir, from your Brother y' have convey'd us bliss;
Now, since your genius so concurs with his,
Let your own quill our next enjoyments frame;
All must be rich, that's grac'd with Lovelace name.
Symon Ognell M.D.112.1 Coningbrens.
112.1 This person is not mentioned in Munk's Roll of the Royal College of Physicians, 1861.
ON THE TRULY HONOURABLE COLL. RICHARD LOVELACE, OCCASIONED BY THE PUBLICATION OF HIS POSTHUME-POEMS.
ELEGIE.
Great son of Mars, and of Minerva too!
With what oblations must we come to woo
Thy sacred soul to look down from above,
And see how much thy memory we love,
Whose happy pen so pleased amorous ears,
And, lifting bright LUCASTA to the sphears,
Her in the star-bespangled orb did set
Above fair Ariadnes coronet,
Leaving a pattern to succeeding wits,
By which to sing forth their Pythonick fits.
Shall we bring tears and sighs? no, no! then we
Should but bemone our selves for loosing thee,
Or else thy happiness seem to deny,
Or to repine at thy felicity.
Then, whilst we chant out thine immortal praise,
Our offerings shall be onely sprigs of bays;
And if our tears will needs their brinks out-fly,
We'l weep them forth into an elegy,
To tell the world, how deep fates wounded wit,
When Atropos the lovely Lovelace hit!
How th' active fire, which cloath'd thy gen'rous mind,
Consum'd the water, and the earth calcin'd
Untill a stronger heat by death was given,
Which sublimated thy poor soul to heaven.
Thou knew'st right well to guide the warlike steed,
And yet could'st court the Muses with full speed
And such success, that the inspiring Nine
Have fill'd their Thespian fountain so with brine.
Henceforth we can expect no lyrick lay,
But biting satyres through the world must stray.
Bellona joyns with fair Erato too,
And with the Destinies do keep adoe,
Whom thus she queries: could not you awhile
Reprieve his life, until another file
Of poems such as these had been drawn up?
The fates reply'd that thou wert taken up,
A sacrifice unto the deities;
Since things most perfect please their holy eyes,
And that no other victim could be found
With so much learning and true virtue crown'd.
Since it is so, in peace for ever rest;
Tis very just that God should have the best.
Sym. Ognell M.D. Coningbrens.
ON MY BROTHER.
Lovelace is dead! then let the world return
To its first chaos, mufled in its urn;
The stars and elements together lye,
Drench'd in perpetual obscurity,
And the whole machine in confusion be,
As immethodick as an anarchie.
May the great eye of day weep out his light,
Pale Cynthia leave the regiment of night,
The galaxia, all in sables dight,
Send forth no corruscations to our sight,
The Sister-Graces and the sacred Nine,
Statu'd with grief, attend upon his shrine,
Whose worth, whose loss, should we but truly rate,
'Twould puzzle our arithmetic to state
Th' accompt of vertu's so transcendent high,
Number and value reach infinity.
Did I pronounce him dead! no, no! he lives,
And from his aromatique cell he gives
Spice-breathed fumes, whose odoriferous scent
(In zephre-gales which never can be spent)
Doth spread it self abr and much out-vies
The eastern bird in her self-sacrifice;
Or Father Phoebus, who to th' world derives
Such various and such multiformed lives,
Took notice that brave Lovelace did inspire
The universe with his Promethean fire,
And snatcht him hence, before his thread was spun,
En'ving that here should be another Sun. T. L.113.1
113.1 Thomas Lovelace, one of the poet's brothers.
ON THE DEATH OF MY DEAR BROTHER.
EPITAPH.
Tread (reader) gently, gently ore
The happy dust beneath this floor:
For in this narrow vault is set
An alablaster cabinet,
Wherein both arts and arms were put,
Like Homers Iliads in a nut,
Till Death with slow and easie pace
Snatcht the bright jewell from the case;
And now, transform'd, he doth arise
A constellation in the skies,
Teaching the blinded world the way,
Through night, to startle into day:
And shipwrackt shades, with steady hand,
He steers unto th' Elizian land.
Dudley Posthumus-Lovelace.
THE END.
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