They by some pebble summon'd would reply
In loud results to every battery;
Thus do we come unto thy marble room,
To echo from the music of thy tomb.
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 than 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 tenant to return,
Crack'd (in the too restrain'd estate) its urn.
That is but left to a successive trust,
The soul's first buried in his body's dust.
Thou, more thyself now thou art less confin'd,
Art not concern'd in what is left behind;
While we sustain the loss that thou art gone
Un-essenc'd in the separation;
And he that weeps thy funeral, in one,
Is pious to the widow'd nation.
And under what (now) covert must I sing
Secure as if beneath a cherub's wing:
When thou hast ta'en thy flight hence and art nigh In place to some related hierarchy,
Where a bright wreath of glories doth but set
Upon thy head an equal coronet;
And thou above our humble converse gone,
Canst but be reach'd by contemplation.
Our lutes (as thine was touch'd) were vocal by,
And thence receiv'd the soul by sympathy;
That did above the threads inspiring creep,
And with soft whispers broke the am'rous sleep:
Which now no more (mov'd with the sweet surprise)
Awake into delicious rhapsodies.
But with their silent mistress do comply,
And fast in undisturbed slumbers lie.
How from thy first ascent thou didst disperse
A blushing warmth throughout the universe,
While near the morn's 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 wouldst however supererogate.
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'd, from that exchequer, but the more
To rate his master's vegetable ore:
Thus when the Greek and Latin Muse we read
As the but cold inscriptions of the dead,
We to advantage then admired thee
Who didst live on still with thy poesy:
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 drain'd;
Though what thou hast bequeathed us, no space
Of this world's 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 who art laid 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 groan;
No more the chirping sonnets with shrill notes
Must henceforth volley from our treble throats;
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;
Until each letter spelt distinctly lies,
Cut by the mystic droppings of our eyes.
METHINKS when kings, prophets, and poets die,
We should not bid men weep, nor ask them why;
But the great loss should by instinct impair
The nations like a pestilential air,
And in a moment men should feel the cramp,
Of grief, like persons poison'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 faces;
Yet still we see princes and poets fall
Without their proper pomp of funeral;
Men look about as if they ne'er had known
The poet's laurel, or the prince's crown.
Lovelace hath long been dead, and we can be
Oblig'd to no man for an elegy.
Are you all turn'd to silence, or did he
Retain the only sap of poesy,
That kept all branches living? must his fall
Set an eternal period upon all?
So when a spring-tide doth begin to fly
From the green shore, each neighbouring creek grows
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
Another's worth to make his own seem brave;
And this was not his aim, nor is it mine;
I now conceive the scope of their design,
Which is with one consent to bring, and burn
Contributary incense on his urn,
Where each man's love and fancy shall be tried,
As when great Jonson, or brave Shakspeare died.
Wits must unite, for ignorance we see,
Hath got a great train of artillery;
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 discuss
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 suit
With Orpheus' lyre, or with Anacreon's lute;
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