Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, AN ELEGIE ON THE DEATH OF DR. PORTER, by RICHARD CRASHAW



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AN ELEGIE ON THE DEATH OF DR. PORTER, by             Poet's Biography
First Line: Stay, silver-footed came, strive not to wed
Last Line: Are teeming now with store of fresh supplies.
Subject(s): Porter, George (D. 1635)


Stay, silver-footed Came, strive not to wed
Thy maiden streames soe soone to Neptunes bed:
Fixe heere thy wat'ry eyes upon these towers.
Unto whose feet in reverence of the powers
That there inhabite, thou on every day
With trembling lippes an humble kisse do'st pay.
See all in mourning now; the walles are jett,
With pearly papers carelesly besett
Whose snowy cheekes, least joy should be exprest,
The weeping pen with sable teares hath drest.
Their wronged beauties speake a Tragaedy,
Somewhat more horrid than an Elgy.
Pure, and unmixed cruelty they tell,
Which poseth mischeife's selfe to Parallel.
Justice hath lost her hand, the law her head;
Peace is an Orphan now; her father's dead,
Honesties nurse, Vertues blest Guardian,
That heavenly mortall, that Seraphick man.
Enough is said. now, if thou canst crowd on
Thy lazy crawling streames, pri'thee be gone,
And murmur forth thy woes to every flower,
That on thy bankes sitts in a verdant bower,
And is instructed by thy glassy wave
To paint its perfum'd face with colours brave.
In vailes of dust their silken heads they'le hide,
As if the oft departing sunne had dy'd.
Goe learne that fatall Quire, soe sprucely dight
In downy Surplisses, and vestments white,
To sing their saddest Dir'ges, such as may
Make their scar'd soules take wing, and fly away.
Lett thy swolne breast discharge thy strugling groanes
To th' churlish rocks; and teach the stubborne stones
To melt in gentle drops, lett them be heard
Of all proud Neptunes silver-sheilded guard;
That greife may crack that string, and now untie
Their shackled tongues to chant an Elegie.
Whisper thy plaints to th' Oceans curteous eares,
Then weepe thyselfe into a sea of teares.
A thousand Helicons the Muses send
In a bright Christall tide, to thee they tend,
Leaving those mines of Nectar, their sweet fountains,
They force a lilly path through rosy mountaines.
Feare not to dy with greife; all bubling eyes
Are teeming now with store of fresh supplies.





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