Classic Poem

AN ELEGIE
upon the untimely death of
Prince Henry .
Reade, you that have some teares left yet unspent,
Now weepe your selves hart sicke, and nere repent:
For I will open to your free accesse
The sanctuary of all heavinesse,
Where men their fill may mourne, and never sinne:
And I their humble Priest thus first beginne.
Fly from the Skies, yee blessed beames of light;
Rise up in horrid vapours, ugly night,
And fetter'd bring that ravenous monster Fate,
The fellon and the traytour to our state.
Law-Eloquence wee neede not to convince
His guilt; all know it, 'tis hee stole our Prince,
The Prince of men, the Prince of all that bore
Ever that princely name; O now no more
Shall his perfections, like the Sunne-beames, dare
The purblinde world: in heav'n those glories are.
What could the greatest artist, Nature, adde
T' encrease his graces? devine forme hee had,
Striving in all his parts which should surpasse;
And like a well tun'd chime his carriage was
Full of coelestiall witchcraft, winning all
To admiration and love personall.
His Launce appear'd to the beholders eyes,
When his faire hand advanc't it in the skyes,
Larger then truth, for well could hee it wield,
And make it promise honour in the field.
When Court and Musicke cal'd him, off fell armes,
And, as hee had beene shap't for loves alarmes,
In harmony hee spake, and trod the ground
In more proportion then the measur'd sound.
How fit for peace was hee, and rosie beds!
How fit to stand in troopes of iron heads,
When time had with his circles made complete
His charmed rounds! All things in time grow great.
This feare, even like a commet that hangs high,
And shootes his threatning flashes through the skye,
Held all the eyes of Christendome intent
Upon his youthfull hopes, casting th' event
Of what was in his power, not in his will:
For that was close conceal'd, and must lye still,
As deepely hid as that designe which late
With the French Lyon dyed. O earthly state,
How doth thy greatnesse in a moment fall,
And feastes in highest pompe turne funerall!
But our young Henry , arm'd with all the arts
That sute with Empire, and the gaine of harts,
Bearing before him fortune, power, and love,
Appear'd first in perfection, fit to move
Fixt admiration; though his yeeres were greene,
Their fruit was yet mature: his care had beene
Survaying India, and implanting there
The knowledge of that God which hee did feare:
And ev'n now, though hee breathlesse lyes, his sayles
Are strugling with the windes, for our avayles
T' explore a passage hid from humane tract,
Will fame him in the enterprise or fact.
O Spirit full of hope, why art thou fled
From deedes of honour? why's that vertue dead
Which dwelt so well in thee? a bowre more sweet,
If Paradise were found, it could not meete.
Curst then bee Fate that stole our blessing so,
And had for us now nothing left but woe,
Had not th' All-seeing providence yet kept
Another joy safe, that in silence slept:
And that same Royall workeman, who could frame
A Prince so worthy of immortall fame,
Lives; and long may hee live, to forme the other
His exprest image, and grace of his brother,
To whose eternall peace wee offer now
Guifts which hee lov'd, and fed: Musicks that flow
Out of a sowre and melancholike vayne,
Which best sort with the sorrowes wee sustaine.