Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, AN ELEGY UPON THE DEATH OF MY LORD FRANCIS VILLIERS, by ANDREW MARVELL


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

AN ELEGY UPON THE DEATH OF MY LORD FRANCIS VILLIERS, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Tis true that he is dead: but yet to chuse
Last Line: To be at once his trophee and his tombe.


Tis true that he is dead: but yet to chuse,
Methinkes thou Fame should not have brought the news
Thou canst discourse at will and speak at large:
But wast not in the fight nor durst thou charge.
While he transported all with valiant rage
His Name eternizd, but cut short his age;
On the safe battlements of Richmonds bowers
Thou wast espyd, and from the guilded Towers
Thy silver Trumpets sounded a Retreat,
Farre from the dust and battails sulphry heat.
Yet what coudst thou have done? 'tis alwayes late
To struggle with inevitable fate.
Much rather thou I know expectst to tell
How heavy Cromwell gnasth the earth and fell.
Or how slow Deathe farre from the sight of day
The long-deceived Fairfax bore away.
But until then, let us young Francis praise:
And plant upon his hearse the bloody bayes,
Which we will water with our welling eyes.
Teares spring not still from spungy Cowardice.
The purer fountaines from the Rocks more steep
Destill and stony valour best doth weep.
Besides Revenge, it often quencht in teares,
Hardens like Steele and daily keener weares.

Great Buckingham, whose death doth freshly strike
Our memoryes, because to this so like;
Ere than in the Eternall Court he shone,
And here a Favourite there found a throne;
The fatall night before he hence did bleed,
Left to his Princes this immortall seed.
As to the wise Chinese in the fertile wombe
Of Earth doth a more precious clay entombe,
Which dying by his will he leaves consignd:
Til by mature delay of time refind
The christall metall fit to be releast
Is taken forth to crowne each royall feast;
Such was the fate by which this Postume breathd,
Who scarcely seems begotten but bequethed.

Never was any humane plant that grew
More faire than this and acceptably new.
'Tis true that beauty doth most men dispraise:
Prudence and valour their esteeme do raise.
But he that hath already these in store,
Can not be poorer sure for having more.
And his unimitable handsomenesse
Made him indeed be more than man, not lesse.
We do but faintly Gods resemblance beare
And like rough coyns of carelesse mints appeare:
But he of purpose made, did represent
In a rich Medall every lineament.

Lovely and admirable as he was,
Yet was his Sword or Armour all his Glasse.
Nor in his Mistris eyes that joy he tooke,
As in an enemies himselfe to looke.
I know how well he did, with what delight
Those serious imitations of fight.
Still in the trialls of strong exercise
His was the first, and his the second prize.

Bright lady, thou that rulest from above
The last and greatest Monarchy of Love:
Faire Richmond hold thy Brother or he goes.
Try if the Jasmin of thy hand or Rose
Of thy red Lip can keep him alwayes here.
For he loves danger and doth never feare.
Or may thy teares prevaile with him to stay?

But he resolv'd breaks carelesly away.
Onely one argument could now prolong
His stay and that most faire and so most strong:
The matchlesse Chlora whose pure fires did warm
His soule and only could his passions charme.

You might with much more reason go reprove
The amorous Magnet which the North doth love.
Or preach divorce and say it is amisse
That with tall Elms the twining Vines should kisse
Then chide two such so fit, so equall faire
That in the world they have no other paire.
Whom it might seeme that Haven did create
To restore man unto his first estate.
Yet she for honours tyrannous respect
Her own desires did and his neglect.
And like the Modest Plant at every touch
Shrunk in her leaves and feared it was too much.

But who can paint the torments and that pain
Which he profest and now she could not faigne?
He like the Sun but overcast and pale:
Shee like a Rainbow, that ere long must faile,
Whose rosiall cheek where Heaven it selfe did view
Begins to separate and dissolve to dew.

At last he leave obtaines though sad and slow,
First of her and then of himselfe to goe.
How comely and how terribly he sits
At once and Warre as well as Love befits!
Ride where thou wilt and bold adventures find;
But all the Ladies are got up behind.
Guard them, though not they selfe: for in thy death
Th' Eleven thousand Virgins lose their breath.

So Hector issuing from the Trojan wall
The sad Iliades to the gods did call
With hands displayed and with dishevell'd haire
That they the Empire in his life could spare.
While he secure through all the field doth spy
Achilles, for Achilles only cry.
Ah ignorant that yet e'er night he must
Be drawn by him inglorious through the dust.

Such fell young Villiers in the chearfull heat
Of youth: his locks intangled all with sweat
And those eyes which the Sentinell did keep
Of love closed up in an eternall sleep.
While Venus of Adonis thinks no more
Slaine by the harsh tuske of the Savage Boare.
Hither she runns and hath him hurried farre
Out of the noise and blood, and killing warre:
Where in her Gardens of Sweet myrtle laid
Shee kisses him in the immortall shade,

Yet dyed he not revengelesse: Much he did
Ere he could suffer. A whole Pyramid
Of Vulgar bodies he erected high:
Scorning without a Sepulcher to dye.
And with his steele which did whole troopes divide
He cut his Epitaph on either Side.
Till finding nothing to his courage fit
He rid up last to death and conquer'd it.

Such are the Obsequities to Francis own:
He best the pompe of his owne death has showne.
And we hereafter to his honour will
Not write so many, but so many kill.
Till the whole Army by just vengeance come
To be at once his Trophee and his Tombe.





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