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 abroad their flagrant<111.1> 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 he<111.
Pages:
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288