Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, AN ELEGY UPON THE DEATH OF MR. STANNINOW, FELLOW OF QUEENE'S, by RICHARD CRASHAW



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AN ELEGY UPON THE DEATH OF MR. STANNINOW, FELLOW OF QUEENE'S, by             Poet's Biography
First Line: Hath aged winter, fledg'd with feathered raine
Last Line: Let each eye water't with a courteous teare.
Subject(s): Stanninow, James (D. 1635)


Hath aged winter, fledg'd with feathered raine,
To frozen Caucasus his flight now tane?
Doth hee in downy snow there closely shrowd
His bedrid limmes, wrapt in a fleecy clowd?
Is th' earth disrobed of her apron white,
Kind winter's guift, and in a greene one dight?
Doth she beginne to dandle in her lappe
Her painted infants, fedd with pleasant pappe,
Which their bright father in a pretious showre
From heavens sweet milky streame doth gently poure?
Doth blith Apollo cloath the heavens with joye,
And with a golden wave wash cleane away
Those durty smutches, which their faire fronts wore,
And make them laugh, which frown'd and wept before?
If heaven hath now forgot to weepe; o then
What meane these shoures of teares amongst us men?
These Cataracts of greife, that dare ev'n vie
With th' richest clowds their pearly treasurie?
If winter's gone, whence this untimely cold,
That on these snowy limmes hath laid such hold?
What more than winter hath that dire art found,
These purple currents hedg'd with violets round
To corrallize, which softly wont to slide
In crimson waveletts, and in scarlet tide?
If Flora's darlings now awake from sleepe,
And out of their greene mantletts dare to peepe:
O tell me then, what rude outragious blast
Forc't this prime flowre of youth to make such hast
To hide his blooming glories, and bequeath
His balmy treasure to the bedd of death?
'Twas not the frozen zone; One sparke of fire,
Shott from his flaming eye, had thaw'd it's ire,
And made it burne in love: 'Twas not the rage,
And too ungentle nippe of frosty age:
'Twas not the chast, and purer snow, whose nest
Was in the modest Nunnery of his brest:
Noe. none of these ravish't those virgin roses,
The Muses, and the Graces fragrant posies.
Which, while they smiling sate upon his face,
They often kist, and in the sugred place
Left many a starry teare, to thinke how soone
The golden harvest of our joyes, the noone
Of all our glorious hopes should fade,
And be eclipsed with an envious shade.
Noe, 'twas old doting Death, who, stealing by,
Dragging his crooked burthen, look't awry,
And streight his amorous syth (greedy of blisse)
Murdred the earth's just pride with a rude kisse.
A winged Herald, gladd of soe sweet a prey,
Snatch't upp the falling starre, soe richly gay,
And plants it in a precious perfum'd bedd,
Amongst those Lillies, which his bosome bredd.
Where round about hovers with silver wing
A golden summer, an aeternall spring.
Now that his root such fruit againe may beare,
Let each eye water't with a courteous teare.





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