UPON THE DEATH OF LORD HASTINGS by ANDREW MARVELL

Go, intercept some Fountain in the Vein,
Whose Virgin-Source yet never steept the Plain.
Hastings is dead, and we must finde a Store
If Tears untoucht, and never wept before.
Go, stand betwixt the Morning and the Flowers;
And, ere they fall, arrest the early Showers.
Hastings is dead; and we, disconsolate,
With early Tears must mourn his early Fate.

Alas, his Vertues did his Death presage:
Needs must he die, that doth out-run his Age.
The Phlegmatick and Slowe prolongs his day,
And on Times Wheel sticks like a Remora.
What man is he, that hath no Heaven beguil'd,
And is not thence mistaken for a Childe?
While those of growth more sudden, and more bold,
Are hurried hence, as if already old.
For, there above, They number not as here,
But weigh to Man the Geometrick yeer.

Had be but at this Measure still increast,
And on the Tree of Life once made a Feast,
And that of Knowledge; what Loves had he given
To Earth, and then what Jealousies to Heaven!
But 'tis a Maxime of that State, That none,
Lest He becomes like Them, taste more than one.
Therefore the Democratick Stars did rise,
And all that Worth from hence did Ostracize.

Yet as some Prince, that, for State-Jealousie,
Secures his neerest and most lov'd Ally;
His Thought with richest Triumphs entertains,
And in the choicest Pleasures charms his Pains:
So he, not banisht hence, but there confin'd,
There better recreates his active Minde.

Before the Chrystal Palace where he dwells,
The armed Angels hold their Carouzels;
And underneath, he views the Turnaments
Of all these Sublunary Elements.
But most he doth th' Eternal Book behold,
On which the happie Names do stand enroll'd;
And gladly there can all his Kindred claim,
But most rejoyces at his Mother's name.

The gods themselves cannot their Joy conceal,
But draw their Veils, and their pure Beams reveal:
Onely they drooping Hymenus note,
Who for sad Purple, tears his Saffron-coat;
And trails his Torches th'row the Starry Hall
Reversed, at his Darlings Funeral.

And Aesculapius, who, asham'dand stern,
Himself at once condemneth, and Mayern;
Like some sad Chymist, who prepar'd to reap
The Golden Harvest, sees his glassses leap.
For, how Immortal must their Race have stood,
Had Mayern once been mixt with Hastings blood!
How Sweet and Verdant would these Lawrels be,
Had they been planted on that Balsam-tree!

But what could he, good man, although he bruis'd
All Herbs, and them a thousand ways infus'd?
All he had try'd, but all in vain, he saw,
And wept, as we, with Redress or Law.
For Man (alas) is but the Heavens sport;
And Art indeed is Long, but Life is Short.

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