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<DATE>06-08-07</DATE>
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<NAME>Mona Logarbo</NAME>
<RESP>MURP</RESP>
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<IDG S="marc" R="UM" ID="A87113">
<STC T="W">H769</STC>
<STC T="T">669.f.6[119]</STC>
<BIBNO T="umi">99871228</BIBNO>
<VID>160979</VID>
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<TEXT LANG="eng">
<BODY>
<DIV1 TYPE="elegy">
<PB REF="1" MS="y">
<HEAD><HI>AN ELEGIE UPON THE DEATH OF THE MIRROVR Of Magnanimity, the right Honourable</HI> Robert <HI>Lord</HI> Brooke; Lord Generall of the Forces of the Counties of <HI>VVarwick,</HI> and <HI>Stafford,</HI> who was &s;lain by A Musket &s;hot at the &s;iege of <HI>Liechfield,</HI> <DATE>the &s;econd day of March, <HI>1642.</HI></DATE></HEAD>
<LG>
<L>BAck blu&s;hing morne, to thine Eternall bed,</L>
<L>Ruffle for ever the tre&s;&s;es of thine head</L>
<L>In &s;ome thick Cloud, and thou who&s;e raies do burn</L>
<L>The Center of the Univer&s;e, returne:</L>
<L>For if thy head beyond its Porch appeares,</L>
<L>Thy &s;elfe, thy &s;elf mu&s;t needs melt into teares.</L>
<L>Bright Saint thy pardon, if my dolefull Ver&s;e</L>
<L>Do &s;eem in &s;ighing ore thy glorious Hear&s;e</L>
<L>To envy death; for fame it &s;elfe now weares</L>
<L>Griefes Livery, and only &s;peakes in teares.</L>
<L>Brave <HI>Brooke</HI> is dead, like Lightning, which no part</L>
<L>O 'th body touches, but fir&s;t &s;trikes the heart,</L>
<L>This word hath murdred all; it can a &s;hower</L>
<L>Enforce from every eye, it hath a power</L>
<L>To alter natures cour&s;e, how el&s;e &s;hould all</L>
<L>Run wilde with mourning, and di&s;tracted fall.</L>
<L>Is't not a gro&s;&s;e unttuth to &s;ay, thy breath</L>
<L>Expir'd too &s;oon? or that impartiall Death</L>
<L>Thy Corps too &s;oon &s;urpriz'd? No, if thy yeares</L>
<L>Be numbred by thy Vertues, or our teares,</L>
<L>Thou did&s;t the old <HI>Methu&s;alem</HI> outlive;</L>
<L>Though Time not forty yeares account can give</L>
<L>Of thine abode on earth, yet every hower</L>
<L>Of thine unpattern'd life, by Vertues power</L>
<L>A yeare in length &s;urpa&s;t, each well-&s;pent day,</L>
<L>The body maketh young, the &s;oule makes gray.</L>
<L>Ah cruell Death! who with one cur&s;ed Ball,</L>
<L>Did&s;t make the <HI>Atlas</HI> of our State to fall,</L>
<L>In one thou all ha&s;t &s;laine, who&s;e death alone,</L>
<L>A death will be unto a Million.</L>
<L>Could none but his &s;weet Nectard blood appea&s;e</L>
<L>The fire-&s;prung Bullets heat? Mu&s;t it needs &s;eaze</L>
<L>His &s;acred face, it &s;elfe there to en&s;hrine,</L>
<L>Not in an earthly, but a Tombe divine.</L>
<L>See luckle&s;&s;e <HI>Liechfield</HI> that thou do not hide</L>
<L>The precious blood, which from the wound did &s;lide</L>
<L>At this Lords death, it may not Cloi&s;ter'd be</L>
<L>In thy fraile earth, alwayes impuritie</L>
<L>It did abhor, therefore in Sacrifice,</L>
<L>Send it unto its head above the skies,</L>
<L>And for an Altar whereon it to lay,</L>
<L>A thou&s;and thou&s;and &s;oules through griefe this day</L>
<L>Them&s;elves to death have wept, whom thou mai&s;t take,</L>
<L>And them conjoyne thine Altar for to make.</L>
<L>But lift not up thine head, lea&s;t that the skies</L>
<L>In weeping &s;howres of blood put out thine eyes.</L>
<L>And is this ble&s;&s;ed <HI>Brooke</HI> (who&s;e Cri&s;tall &s;treames</L>
<L>Sweld with &s;uch &s;tore of Grace, who&s;e bli&s;&s;efull beames</L>
<L>Enlightned all) is it &s;o &s;oone drawne drie,</L>
<L>Leaving its ancient current, to fill each eye</L>
<L>With mournefull teares, &s;urely in Paradi&s;e</L>
<L>It &s;elfe it now di&s;channels, where no vice</L>
<L>Or &s;hade of it appeares, a place mo&s;t pure,</L>
<L>Where all &s;uch Saints for ever mu&s;t endure.</L>
<L>I might relate thine actions here on earth,</L>
<L>Thy my&s;terie of life, thy noble&s;t birth,</L>
<L>Out&s;hin'd by nobler vertue, but how farre</L>
<L>Th' ha&s;t tane thy journey 'bove the highe&s;t &s;tarre</L>
<L>I cannot &s;peake, nor whether thou art in</L>
<L>Commi&s;&s;ion with a Throne, or Cherubin.</L>
<L>I might unto the world, great Lord repeate,</L>
<L>Thine owne brave &s;tory, and tell it how great</L>
<L>Thou wert in thy minds Empire, and how all</L>
<L>Who out live thee, &s;ee but the Funerall</L>
<L>Of glory: and if yet &s;ome vertuous be,</L>
<L>They but weake apparitions are of thee.</L>
<L>Thine actions were mo&s;t ju&s;t, thy words mature,</L>
<L>And every &s;cean of life from &s;in &s;o pure,</L>
<L>That &s;carce in its whole hi&s;tory we can</L>
<L>Finde Vice enough to &s;ay thou wert but man.</L>
<L>'Tis pa&s;t all mortals power, then much more mine,</L>
<L>To tell what vertues dwelt within this &s;hrine,</L>
<L>Yet if illiterate per&s;ons walk this way,</L>
<L>And ask what jewell glorifies this clay,</L>
<L>Say, good <HI>Brookes</HI> a&s;hes this Tombe hath in keeping,</L>
<L>Then lead them forth, le&s;t they grow blind withweeping.</L>
<L>Tell but his name, no more, that &s;hall &s;uffice,</L>
<L>To draw downe floods of teares from drye&s;t eyes,</L>
<L>Our griefes are infinite, therefore my Mu&s;e,</L>
<L>Ca&s;t Anchor here, mine eyes cannot effu&s;e</L>
<L>Any more teares, this for thy comfort know,</L>
<L>Fate cannot give us &s;uch another blow.</L>
</LG>
<BIBL>Ex opere (prae&s;ertim) <HI>Henrici Haringtoni,</HI> <GAP DESC="foreign"></BIBL>
</DIV1>
</BODY>
<BACK>
<DIV1 TYPE="colophon">
<P>London printed for <HI>H. O. Anno Dom.</HI> 1642.</P>
</DIV1>
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