Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ON THE DEATH OF THE TRULY VALIANT GEORGE DUKE OF ALBEMARLE, by THOMAS FLATMAN


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ON THE DEATH OF THE TRULY VALIANT GEORGE DUKE OF ALBEMARLE, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Now blush thyself into confusion
Last Line: Tis to restore, than to usurp a monarch's crown.
Subject(s): Monck, George. 1st Duke Of Albemarle


Stanza I.

Now blush thyself into confusion,
Ridiculous Mortality
With indignation to be trampled on
By them that court Eternity;
Whose generous deeds and prosperous state
Seem poorly set within the reach of Fate,
Whose every trophy, and each laurel wreath
Depends upon a little breath;
Confin'd within the narrow bounds of Time,
And of uncertain age,
With doubtful hazards they engage,
Thrown down, while victory bids them higher climb;
Their glories are eclips'd by Death.
Hard circumstances of illustrious men
Whom Nature (like the Scythian Prince) detains
Within the body's chains
(Nature, that rigorous Tamberlain).
Stout Bajazet disdain'd the barbarous rage
Of that insulting conqueror,
Bravely himself usurp'd his own expiring power,
By dashing out his brains against his iron cage.

II.

But 'tis indecent to complain,
And wretched mortals curse their stars in vain,
In vain they waste their tears for them that die,
Themselves involv'd in the same destiny,
No more with sorrow let it then be said
The glorious Albemarle is dead.
Let what is said of him triumphant be,
Words as gay, as is his Fame,
And as manly as his name,
Words as ample as his praise,
And as verdant as his bays,
An Epinicion, not an Elegy.
Yet why shouldst thou, ambitious Muse, believe
Thy gloomy verse can any splendours give,
Or make him one small moment longer live?
Nothing but what is vulgar thou canst say;
Or misbecoming numbers sing;
What tribute to his memory canst thou pay,
Whose virtue sav'd a Crown, and could oblige a King?

III.

Many a year distressed Albion lay
By her unnatural offspring torn,
Once the World's terror, then its scorn,
At home a prison, and abroad a prey:
Her valiant Youth, her valiant Youth did kill,
And mutual blood did spill;
Usurpers then, and many a mushroom Peer
Within her palaces did domineer;
There did the vulture build his nest,
There the owls and satyrs rest,
By Zim and Ohim all possest;
'Till England's Angel-Guardian, thou,
With pity and with anger mov'd
For Albion thy belov'd
(Olive-chaplets on thy brow),
With bloodless hands upheld'st her drooping head,
And with thy trumpets call'dst her from the dead.
Bright Phosphor to the rising Sun!
That Royal Lamp, by thee did first appear
Usher'd into our happy hemisphere;
O may it still shine bright and clear!
No cloud nor night approach it, but a constant noon!

IV.

Nor thus did thy undaunted valour cease,
Or wither with unactive peace:
Scarce were our civil broils allay'd,
While yet the wound of an intestine war
Had left a tender scar,
When of our new prosperities afraid,
Our jealous neighbours fatal arms prepare;
In floating groves the enemy drew near.
Loud did the Belgian Lion roar,
Upon our coasts th' Armada did appear,
And boldly durst attempt our native shore,
Till his victorious squadrons check'd their pride,
And did in triumph o'er the Ocean ride.
With thunder, lightning, and with clouds of smoke
He did their insolence restrain,
And gave his dreadful law to all the main,
Whose surly billows trembled when he spoke,
And put their willing necks under his yoke.
This the stupendious vanquisher has done,
Whose high prerogative it was alone
To raise a ruin'd, and secure an envied throne.

V.

Then angry Heav'n began to frown,
From Heav'n a dreadful pestilence came down,
On every side did lamentations rise;
Baleful sigh, and heavy groan,
All was plaint, and all was moan!
The pious friend with trembling love,
Scarce had his latest kindness done,
In sealing up his dead friend's eyes,
Ere with his own surprising fate he strove,
And wanted one to close his own.
Death's iron sceptre bore the sway
O'er our imperial Golgotha;
Yet he with kind, though unconcerned eyes,
Durst stay and see those numerous tragedies.
He in the field had seen Death's grisly shape,
Heard him in volleys talk aloud,
Beheld his grandeur in a glittering crowd,
And unamaz'd seen him in cannons gape:
Ever unterrified his valour stood
Like some tall rock amidst a sea of blood:
'Twas loyalty from sword and pest kept him alive,
The safest armour and the best preservative.

VI.

The flaming City next implor'd his aid,
And seasonably pray'd
His force against the Fire, whose arms the sea obey'd;
Wide did th' impetuous torrent spread,
Then those goodly fabrics fell,
Temples themselves promiscuously there
Dropp'd down, and in the common ruin buried were,
The City turn'd into one Mongibel:
The haughty tyrant shook his curled head,
His breath with vengeance black, his face with fury red.
Then every cheek grew wan and pale,
Every heart did yield and fail:
Nought but thy presence could its power suppress,
Whose stronger light put out the less.
As London's noble structures rise,
Together shall his memory grow,
To whom that beauteous town so much does owe.
London! joint Favourite with him thou wert;
As both possess'd a room within one heart,
So now with thine indulgent Sovereign join,
Respect his great friend's ashes, for he wept o'er thine.

VII.

Thus did the Duke perform his mighty stage,
Thus did that Atlas of our State
With his prodigious acts amaze the age,
While worlds of wonders on his shoulders sate;
Full of glories and of years,
He trod his shining and immortal way,
Whilst Albion, compass'd with new floods of tears,
Besought his longer stay.
Profane that pen that dares describe thy bliss,
Or write thine Apotheosis!
Whom Heaven and thy Prince to pleasure prove,
Entrusted with their armies and their love.
In other Courts 'tis dangerous to deserve,
Thou didst a kind and grateful Master serve,
Who, to express his gratitude to thee,
Scorn'd those ill-natur'd arts of policy.
Happy had Belisarius bin
(Whose forward fortune was his sin)
By many victories undone,
He had not liv'd neglected, died obscure,
If for thy Prince those battles he had won,
Thy Prince, magnificent above his Emperor.

VIII.

Among the Gods, those Gods that died like thee,
As great as theirs, and full of majesty,
Thy sacred dust shall sleep secure,
Thy monument as long as theirs endure:
There, free from envy, thou with them
Shalt have thy share of diadem;
Among their badges shall be set
Thy Garter and thy coronet;
Or (which is statelier) thou shalt have
A Mausoleum in thy Prince's breast;
There thine embalmed name shall rest,
That sanctuary shall thee save
From the dishonours of a regal grave:
And every wondrous history,
Read by incredulous Posterity,
That writes of him, shall honourably mention thee,
Who by an humble loyalty hast shown,
How much sublimer gallantry and renown
'Tis to restore, than to usurp a Monarch's Crown.





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