To The Never--Dying Memory Of The Noble Lord Hastings Poem by Thomas Bancroft

What? will my cloudy forehead never clear?
Shall I the arms of Sorrow ever bear
Crost 'bout my Skeleton? and shall mine eye
Be like Aquarius Pitcher, never dry?
O surely never! Grief from yeer to yeer
Rents my poor Heart, and makes his Home--stead there:
Affliction gripes me, as young Hercules
The gasping Snakes: Nor can I hope for ease,
When noble Hastings, in whom Hope did lie
At Anchor, is storm'd hence by Destiny;
And, like a Paphian Rose but newly thrust
Out of its Green Bed, blasted into Dust.
Remorseless Fate! be hateful as thy Harms,
That rudely pluckst out of their Countries arms
Her loveliest Pledges: couldst thou not have feiz'd
Upon some worthless Wretches long diseas'd,
Or fell'd some sturdie Oaks, that have so long
Done with stiff arms the bending Willows wrong;
But needs thou must a Noble Plant remove,
So fixt in Piety, so fill'd with Love
And Goodness, as before our Grandsire's Fall
He had begotten been, and Nature (all
That intersected time till he was born)
Had studied how her dear Work to adorn?
Thou in meer pity mightst have taken Truce
A while, and given him longer use
Of vital Joys. But thus rare Flowers fail
As soon as blown; sweet Spices most exhale;
Fair shining Gems too frequently are crackt;
And richly--laden Vessels quickly wrackt.
Come, noble Nymphs, drop Sorrows Pearls apace
Into his Sepulchre, and on that place
Sweet Flowers plant, that Embleme--wise may show
His sweeter Graces for whose sake they grow;
And cause his fresh Grave visited to be,
As a rare Garden, and rich Treasury.
You worthy Parents of this peerless Son,
Think that you see him (now his Part is done
On this lowe Stage) applauded by the hie
Angels, i' th' Court of blest Eternity:
And let such tow'ring Contemplations throw
Your Sorrows down, and smother all your Wo.
What ere was wanting in his Life's extent,
His Fame supplies, without a Monument:
Who with all weight of Worth that Youth could have,
Sank to the restful centre of the Grave,
As th' Indian dives for Pearls. But Pearls, and Gems,
And all those dazling things call'd Diadems,
What are they to the Glories that surround
His dearer Soul, i' th' heavenly Palace Crown'd?
Where, above Mortal Change, and Fatal Chance,
He (while the rapt Orbs their Lavolta's dance)
Sings Hymns of Joy, and with the Angels Quire
Keeps a blest time, that never shall expire.


An Epitaph on the same.

Tread off, prophaner feet, forbear
To press this hallowed mold, where lies
Fair Vertue's and high Honour's Heir,
The Darling of the bounteous Skies;
Who by rare Parts, the flight of Fame,
In Life, out--went; in Death, his Name.