Classic Poem

O heauens! then is it true that thou art gone,
And left this woefull ile her losse to mone,
Mœliades, bright day starre of the west,
A comet, blazing terrour to the east;
And neither that thy spright so heauenly wise,
Nor bodie, though of earth, more pure than skies,
Nor royall stemme, nor thy sweet tender age,
Of adamantine Fates could quench the rage?
O fading hopes! O short-while-lasting ioy
Of earth-borne man, which one houre can destroy!
Then euen of vertue's spoyles death trophees reares,
As if hee gloried most in many teares.
Forc'd by grimme Destines, Heauens neglect our cryes,
Starres seeme set only to acte tragœdies:
And let them doe their worst, since thou art gone,
Raise whom they list to thrones, enthron'd dethrone,
Staine princely bowres with blood, and euen to Gange,
In cypresse sad, glad Hymen's torches change.
Ah! thou hast left to liue, and in the time
When scarce thou blossom'd in thy pleasant prime:
So falles by northerne blast a virgine rose,
At halfe that doth her bashfull bosome close;
So a sweet flourish languishing decayes,
That late did blush when kist by Phœbus' rayes;
So Phœbus mounting the meridian's hight,
Choack'd by pale Phœbe, faints vnto our sight;
Astonish'd nature sullen stands to see
The life of all this all so chang'd to bee;
In gloomie gownes the starres about deplore,
The sea with murmuring mountaines beates the shore,
Blacke darknesse reeles or'e all, in thousand showres
The weeping aire on earth her sorrow powres,
That, in a palsey, quakes to finde so soone
Her louer set, and night burst foorth ere noone.
If heauen, alas! ordain'd thee young to die,
Why was it not where thou thy might did'st trie,
And to the hopefull world at least set forth
Some little sparke of thine expected worth?
Mœliades, O that by Ister's streames,
Amongst shrill-sounding trumpets, flaming gleames
Of warme encrimson'd swords, and cannons' roare,
Balls thicke as raine pour'd by the Caspian shore,
Amongst crush'd lances, ringing helmes, and shields,
Dismembred bodies rauishing the fields,
In Turkish blood made red like Marses starre,
Thou ended hadst thy life, and Christian warre;
Or as braue Burbon thou hadst made old Rome,
Queene of the world, thy triumph's place and tombe!
So heauen's faire face, to the vnborne which reades,
A booke had beene of thine illustrous deedes;
So to their nephewes aged syres had told
The high exploits perform'd by thee of old,
Townes raz'd, and rais'd, victorious, vanquish'd bands,
Fierce tyrants flying, foyl'd, kill'd by thy hands.
And in deare arras, virgines faire had wrought
The bayes and trophees to thy countrey brought;
While some new Homer, imping pennes to fame,
Deafe Nilus' dwellers had made heare thy name.
That thou didst not attaine those honours' spheares,
It was not want of worth, O no, but yeares.
A youth more braue pale Troy with trembling walles
Did neuer see, nor shee whose name apalles
Both Titan's golden bowres, for bloody fights
Mustring on Marses field such Marse-like knights.
The heauens had brought thee to the highest hight
Of wit, and courage, shewing all their might
When they thee fram'd: ay mee! that what is braue
On earth, they as their owne so soone should craue!
Mœliades sweet courtly nymphes deplore,
From Thuly to Hydaspes' pearlie shore.
When Forth thy nurse, Forth where thou first didst passe
Thy tender dayes, (who smyl'd oft on her glasse
To see thee gaze,) meandring with her streames,
Heard thou hadst left this round, from Phœbus' beames
She sought to flie, but forced to returne
By neighbour brookes, shee gaue her selfe to mourne;
And as shee rush'd her Cyclades among,
Shee seem'd to plaine that heauen had done her wrong.
With a hoarse plaint, Cleyd down her steepie rockes,
And Tweed through her greene mountaines cled with flockes,
Did wound the ocean, murmuring thy death;
The ocean that roar'd about the earth,
And it to Mauritanian Atlas told,
Who shrunke through griefe, and downe his white haires roll'd
Hudge streames of teares, that changed were in floods,
With which hee drown'd the neighbour plaines and woods.
The lesser brookes, as they did bubbling goe,
Did keepe a consort vnto publike woe:
The shepheards left their flockes with downe-cast eyes,
Disdaining to looke vp to angrie skies;
Some broke their pipes, and some in sweet-sad layes
Made senslesse things amazed at thy praise.
His reed Alexis hung vpon a tree,
And with his teares made Doven great to bee.
Mœliades sweet courtly nymphes deplore,
From Thuly to Hydaspes' pearlie shore.
Chaste maides which haunt faire Aganippe well,
And you in Tempe's sacred shade who dwell,
Let fall your harpes, cease tunes of ioy to sing,
Discheueled make all Parnassus ring
With antheames sad; thy musicke Phœbus turne
In dolefull plaints, whilst ioy it selfe doth mourne:
Dead is thy darling, who decor'd thy bayes,
Who oft was wont to cherish thy sweet layes,
And to a trumpet raise thine amorous stile,
That floting Delos enuie might this ile.
You Acidalian archers breake your bowes,
Your brandons quench, with teares blot beautie's snowes,
And bid your weeping mother yet againe
A second Adon's death, nay, Marses plaine.
His eyes once were your darts, nay, euen his name,
Where euer heard, did euery heart inflame:
Tagus did court his loue with golden streames,
Rhein with his townes, faire Seine with all shee claimes.
But ah! poore louers, death did them betrey,
And, not suspected, made their hopes his prey.
Tagus bewailes his losse with golden streames,
Rhein with his townes, faire Seine with all shee claimes.
Mœliades sweet courtly nymphes deplore,
From Thuly to Hydaspes' pearly shore.
Delicious meads, whose checkred plaine foorth brings
White, golden, azure flowres, which once were kings,
In mourning blacke their shining colours dye,
Bow downe their heads, whilst sighing zephyres flye.
Queene of the fields, whose blush makes blushe the morne,
Sweet rose, a prince's death in purple mourne.
O hyacinthes, for ay your AI keepe still,
Nay, with moe markes of woe your leaues now fill;
And you, O flowre of Helen's teares first borne,
Into those liquide pearles againe you turne.
Your greene lockes, forrests, cut, in weeping myrrhes,
The deadly cypresse, and inke-dropping firres,
Your palmes and mirtles change; from shadowes darke
Wing'd syrens waile; and you, sad ecchoes, marke
The lamentable accents of their mone,
And plaine that braue Mœliades is gone.
Stay, skie, thy turning course, and now become
A stately arche, vnto the earth his tombe;
Ouer which ay the watrie Iris keepe,
And sad Electra's sisters which still weepe.
Mœliades sweet courtly nymphes deplore,
From Thuly to Hydaspes' pearlie shore.
Deare ghost, forgiue these our vntimely teares,
By which our louing minde, though weake, appeares;
Our losse, not thine, when wee complaine, wee weepe;
For thee the glistring walles of heauen doe keepe
Beyond the planets' wheeles, aboue that source
Of spheares, that turnes the lower in its course,
Where sunne doth neuer set, nor vgly night
Euer appeares in mourning garments dight;
Where Boreas' stormie trumpet doth not sound,
Nor cloudes, in lightnings bursting, minds astound.
From care's cold climates farre, and hote desire,
Where time is banish'd, ages ne're expire;
Amongst pure sprights enuironed with beames,
Thou think'st all things below to bee but dreames,
And joy'st to looke downe to the azur'd barres
Of heauen, indented all with streaming starres;
And in their turning temples to behold,
In siluer robe the moone, the sunne in gold,
Like young eye-speaking louers in a dance,
With majestie by turnes retire, aduance.
Thou wondrest earth to see hang like a ball,
Clos'd in the gastly cloyster of this all;
And that poore men should proue so madly fond,
To tosse themselues for a small foot of ground,
Nay, that they euen dare braue the powers aboue,
From this base stage of change that cannot moue.
All worldly pompe and pride thou seest arise
Like smoake, that scattreth in the emptie skies.
Other hilles and forrests, other sumptuous towres,
Amaz'd thou find'st, excelling our poore bowres;
Courts voyde of flatterie, of malice mindes,
Pleasure which lasts, not such as reason blindes:
Farre sweeter songs thou hear'st and carrolings,
Whilst heauens doe dance, and quire of angells sings,
Than moldie mindes could faine: euen our annoy,
If it approach that place, is chang'd in ioy.
Rest blessed spright, rest saciate with the sight
Of him whose beames both dazell and delight,
Life of all liues, cause of each other cause,
The spheare and center where the minde doth pause;
Narcissus of himselfe, himselfe the well,
Louer, and beautie, that doth all excell.
Rest, happie ghost, and wonder in that glasse
Where seene is all that shall be, is, or was,
While shall be, is, or was doe passe away,
And nought remaine but an eternall day:
For euer rest; thy praise fame may enroule
In golden annalles, whilst about the pole
The slow Boötes turnes, or sunne doth rise
With skarlet scarfe, to cheare the mourning skies:
The virgines to thy tombe may garlands beare
Of flowres, and on each flowre let fall a teare.
Mœliades sweet courtly nymphes deplore,
From Thuly to Hydaspes' pearlie shore.