Classic and Contemporary Poetry
UPON THE DEATH OF THE LORD HASTINGS, by JOHN DRYDEN Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Must noble hastings immaturely die Last Line: Monument is his spouses marble brest. Subject(s): Death; Epitaphs; Friendship; Life; Soul; Dead, The | ||||||||
MUST Noble Hastings Immaturely die, (The Honour of his ancient Family?) Beauty and Learning thus together meet, To bring a Winding for a Wedding-sheet? Must Vertue prove Death's Harbinger? Must She, With him expiring, feel Mortality? Is Death (Sin's wages) Grace's now? shall Art Make us more Learned, only to depart? If merit be Disease, if Vertue Death; To be Good, Not to be, who'd then bequeath Himself to Discipline? Who'd not esteem Labour a Crime, Study self-murther deem? Our Noble Youth now have pretence to be Dunces securely, Ign'rant healthfully. Rare Linguist! whose Worth speaks it self; whose Praise, Though not his Own, all Tongues Besides do raise: Then Whom Great Alexander may seem less, Who conquer'd Men, but not their Languages. In his Mouth Nations speak; his Tongue might be Interpreter to Greece, France, Italy. His native Soyl was the four parts o' th' Earth; All Europe was too narrow for his Birth. A young Apostle; and (with rev'rence may I speak 'it) inspir'd with gift of Tongues, as They. Nature gave him, a Childe, what Men in vain Oft strive, by Art though further'd, to obtain. His body was an Orb, his sublime Soul Did move on Vertue's and on Learning's pole: Whose Reg'lar Motions better to our view, Then Archimedes Sphere, the Heavens did shew. Graces and Vertues, Languages and Arts, Beauty and Learning, fill'd up all the parts. Heav'ns Gifts, which do, like falling Stars, appear Scatter'd in Others; all, as in their Sphear, Were fix'd and conglobate in's Soul, and thence Shone th'row his Body with sweet Influence; Letting their Glories so on each Limb fall, The whole Frame render'd was Celestial. Come, learned Ptolomy, and tryal make, If thou this Hero's Altitude canst take; But that transcends thy skill; thrice happie all, Could we but prove thus Astronomical. Liv'd Tycho now, struck with this Ray, (which shone More bright i' th' Morn then others Beam at Noon) He'd take his Astrolabe, and seek out here What new Star 't was did gild our Hemisphere. Replenish'd then with such rare Gifts as these, Where was room left for such a Foul Disease? The Nations sin hath drawn that Veil which shrouds Our Day-spring in so sad benighting Clouds. Heaven would no longer trust its Pledge; but thus Recall'd it; rapt its Ganymede from us. Was there no milder way but the Small Pox, The very filth'ness of Pandora's Box? So many Spots, like noeves, our Venus soil? One Jewel set off with so many a Foil? Blisters with pride swell'd, which th'row 's flesh did sprout Like Rose-buds, stuck i' th' Lilly-skin about. Each little Pimple had a Tear in it, To wail the fault its rising did commit: Who, Rebel-like, with their own Lord at strife, Thus made an Insurrection 'gainst his Life. Or were these Gems sent to adorn his Skin, The Cab'net of a richer Soul within? No Comet need foretel his Change drew on, Whose Corps might seem a Constellation. O had he di'd of old, how great a strife Had been, who from his Death should draw their Life? Who should by one rich draught become whate'er Seneca, Cato, Numa, Coesar, were: Learn'd, Vertuous, Pious, Great, and have by this An Universal Metempsuchosis. Must all these ag'd Sires in one Funeral Expire? All die in one so young, so small? Who, had he liv'd his life out, his great Fame Had swoln 'bove any Greek or Romane name? But hasty Winter, with one blast, hath brought The hopes of Autumn, Summer, Spring, to nought. Thus fades the Oak i' th' spring, i' th' blade the Corn; Thus, without Young, this Phoenix dies, new born. Must then old three-legg'd gray-beards, with their Gout, Catarrhs, Rheums, Aches, live three Ages out? Times Offal, onely fit for th' Hospital, Or t' hang an Antiquaries room withal; Must Drunkards, Lechers, spent with Sinning, live With such helps as Broths, Possits, Physick give? None live but such as should die? Shall we meet With none but Ghostly Fathers in the Street? Grief makes me rail; Sorrow will force its way; And Show'rs of Tears, Tempestuous Sighs best lay. The Tongue may fail; but over-flowing Eyes Will weep out lasting streams of Elegies. But thou, O Virgin-widow, left alone, Now thy Beloved, Heaven-ravisht Spouse is gone, (Whose skilful Sire in vain strove to apply Med'cines, when thy Balm was no remedy) With greater than Platonick love, O wed His Soul, tho' not his Body, to thy Bed: Let that make thee a Mother; bring thou forth Th' Ideas of his Vertue, Knowledge, Worth; Transcribe th' Original in new Copies: give Hastings o' th' better part: so shall he live In's Nobler Half; and the great Grandsire be Of an Heroick Divine Progenie: An Issue which t' Eternity shall last, Yet but th' Irradiations which he cast. Erect no Mausoloeums: for his best Monument is his Spouses Marble brest. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A FRIEND KILLED IN THE WAR by ANTHONY HECHT FOR JAMES MERRILL: AN ADIEU by ANTHONY HECHT TARANTULA: OR THE DANCE OF DEATH by ANTHONY HECHT CHAMPS D?ÇÖHONNEUR by ERNEST HEMINGWAY NOTE TO REALITY by TONY HOAGLAND A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY by JOHN DRYDEN A SONG TO A FAIR YOUNG LADY GOING OUT OF TOWN IN THE SPRING by JOHN DRYDEN |
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