Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ... SIR ROWLAND COTTON OF BELLAPORT, by THOMAS RANDOLPH


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ... SIR ROWLAND COTTON OF BELLAPORT, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Rich as was cotton's worth I wish each line
Last Line: T' have liv'd in anything but heaven and fame.


RICH as was Cotton's worth, I wish each line
And every verse I breathe like him a mine.
That by his virtues might created be
A new strange miracle, wealth in poetry.
But that invention cannot, sure, be poor,
That but relates a part of his large store.
His youth began, as when the sun doth rise
Without a cloud, and clearly trots the skies.
And whereas other youths commended be
From conceiv'd hopes, his was maturity,
Where other springs boast blossoms fairly blown,
His was a harvest, and had fruits full-grown;
So that he seem'd a Nestor here to reign
In wisdom, Aeson-like, turn'd young again.
This royal Henry, whose majestic eye
Saw thorough men, did from his court descry,
And thither call'd him, and then fix'd him there,
One of the prime stars in his glorious sphere.
And (princely master) witness this with me,
He liv'd not there to serve himself, but thee.
No silkworm courtier, such as study there
First how to get their clothes, then how to wear.
And though in favour high, he ne'er was known
To promote others' suits to pay for's own,
He valued more his master, and knew well
To use his love was noble, base to sell.
Many there be live in the court, we know,
To serve for pageants, and make up the show,
And are not serviceable there at all,
But now and then at some great festival.
He serv'd for nobler use, the secret cares
Of commonwealths, and mystic state affairs;
And when great Henry did his maxims hear,
He wore him as a jewel in his ear,
Yet short he came not -- nay, he all outwent
In what some call a courtier's complement,
An active body that in subtlewise
Turns pliable to any exercise.
For when he leap'd, the people dar'd to say
He was born all of fire, and wore no clay.
Which was the cause, too, that he wrestled so:
'Tis not fire's nature to be kept below.
His course he so perform'd with nimble pace,
The time was not perceiv'd, measur'd the race,
As it were true that some late artists say --
The earth mov'd too, and ran the other way.
All so soon finish'd, when the match was won,
The gazers-by ask'd why they not begun!
When he in masques us'd his harmonious feet,
The spheres could not in comelier order meet,
Nor move more graceful, whether they advance
Their measures forward, or retire their dance.
There be have seen him in our Henry's court
The glory and the envy of that sport.
And cap'ring like a constellation rise,
Having fix'd upon him all the ladies' eyes.
But these in him I would not virtues call,
But that the world must know that he had all.
When Henry died (our universal woe)
Willing was Cotton to die with him too.
And as near death he came as near could be:
Himself he buried in obscurity,
Entomb'd within his study walls, and there
Only the dead his conversation were.
Yet was he not alone, for every day
Each Muse came thither with her sprig of bay.
The Graces round about him did appear,
The genii of all nations -- all met there.
And while immur'd he sat thus close at home,
To him the wealth of all the world did come.
He had a language to salute the sun,
Where he unharness'd, and where's team begun:
The tongues of all the East to him were known
As natural as they were born his own!
Which from his mouth so sweetly did entice,
As with their language he had mix'd their spice.
In Greek so fluent, that with it compare
Th' Athenian olives, and they sapless are.
Rome did submit her Fasces, and confess
Her Tully might talk more, and yet speak less.
All sciences were lodg'd in his large breast,
And in that palace thought themselves so blest
They never meant to part, but he should be
Sole monarch, and dissolve their heptarchy.
But O, how vain is man's frail harmony!
We all are swans: he that sings best must die.
Death knowledge nothing makes; when we come there
We need no language nor interpreter.
Who would not laugh at him now, that should seek
In Cotton's urn for Hebrew or for Greek?
But his more heav'nly graces with him yet
Live constant, and about him circled sit,
A bright retinue; and on each falls down
A robe of glory, and on each a crown.
Then, madam (though you have a loss sustain'd
Both infinite, and ne'er to be regain'd
Here in this world), dry your sad eyes; once more
You shall again enter the nuptial door,
A sprightly bride; where you shall clothed be
In garments weav'd of immortality.
Nor grieve because he left you not a son
To image Cotton forth, now he is gone.
For it had been a wrong to his great name
T' have liv'd in anything but heaven and fame.





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net