AN ELEGY UPON THE DEATH OF THE MOST ILLUSTRIOUS AND VICTORIOUS PRINCE GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS KING OF SWETHLAND etc. COMPOSED IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE FIRST RUMOURS OF HIS DEATH, AND NOW published and dedicated to the memorial of so renowned a Prince.  
WHat strange sad silence, doth the world astounded?  
Why doth not Fame's still eccho'ng trumpet sound?  
She's grown forgetful, or else hoarse, I fear;  
That we, no more victorious sounds can hear.  
'Twas but of late; when as the thundering noise,  
Of doubled triumphs, conquests, and applause  
Filled our Horizon, and the air did ring,  
With shouts of praise, to Swedes victorious King.  
Was this a dream, or fancied apparition;  
And now is vanished like a fleeting vision?  
Could all the world be thus deluded? No.  
'Twas surely real, and no feigned show!  
Those bloody battles, and those dismal fights,  
We lately heard, were not like vap'rie sights,  
Composed of airy breath, which to the eye,  
Two dreadful Armies, grappling do descry!  
These! These were real, and thy direful steel,  
(Victorious Prince!) shall after ages feel!  
And those deep wounds, which in thy furious ire,  
Thou didst inflict by force of thundering fire,  
Shall leave wide scars, upon the Germane land;  
Which shall for ever, to their terror stand!  
This thou hast done already; and amazed  
Remotest kingdoms, where thy deeds are blazed.  
But on a sudden, lo! thou dost appear,  
To stop, in middle of thy full career!  
All tongues are silent, and our greedy ears,  
Hear nothing now; but terrors, doubts, and fears!  
Or Fame herself is dead; or he that gave  
Life unto Fame, is sunk into his grave!  
Fame cannot die! Oh! can he die, whose look,  
So many thousands dead at once hath struck?  
What mortal durst give him a wound, whose eye,  
Hath made grim Death to start, and turn awry?  
Sure he's not dead! Swethlands for grief would roar;  
And make their groans heard to our English shore;  
If he were dead, whom they have prized more dear  
Than their own proper lives, and did not fear  
To run like Lions at their Prince's words,  
Upon the mouths of Canons, points of Swords!  
He's dead I fear! For can he living be,  
And we no spoils, nor further conquests see?  
Can he be living and not heard to thunder;  
To batter cities, and trample kingdoms under?  
Whose very soul, was fire Aethereal pure:  
Such as no mortal bodies can endure!  
His breath was direful smoke, and from his hands  
Flew showers of iron-balls, that quelled whole lands!  
Can that Sulphurous dust, more quick than wind,  
Once touched with flame. in prison be combined?  
Not steel, nor iron, nor the hardest brass,  
Can stay its fury for the shortest space!  
Though mighty mountains pressed this living flame;  
Yet would it tear them and an entrance frame,  
His Hellish breath, and dismal noise to vent;  
Nor would it cease, till all his fury spent.  
Thus hath it been with Europe's Northern Star;  
And Swedes Victorious Prince, made all for war:  
Whose Spirit touched with fire from heaven, did blaze  
Like to some Comet, sent for to amaze  
And scourge us mortal wights: whose direful breath  
Doth shoot down vengeance, terrors, plagues, and death!  
Had Turk, and Tartar, and the Triple crown  
That awes the Christian world, and treadeth down,  
monarchs, as slaves, themselves in one combined;  
This Heav'n-sent fury had, like lightning wind,  
Shot through them all; and like to scattered corn,  
Their feeble squadrons, had been rend, and torn:  
Till his Celestial vigour were quite spent;  
No Wars, no Ruins could his ire content!  
But now his date is out, and his Commission  
Is stopped from heaven with a new Prohition!  
He's dead! Oh bitter word! enough to make  
Stones for to weep, and iron hearts to ache!  
So soon, alas! In so unwisht an hour,  
Is all our joy quelled, by some secret power!  
Why do we not breathe forth such doleful groans,  
And pour such melting tears; as should hard stones  
Dissolve into salt drops; that they, and we,  
Might so express one mournful Elegy!  
What! are we spent and dry? I see no tears:  
I hear no groans: no wail pierce my ears!  
Oh pardon me! I fear my faltering tongue,  
Distract with troubled sorrow doth you wrong!  
'Tis slender grief that doth by weeping vent;  
And 'tis not much, that can by tears be spent!  
But this, this sorrow, like a mortal wound,  
Strikes deep, and doth our senses quite astounded:  
Lies like a lump of lead, or heavy weight,  
Upon our heart, and presses it so strait,  
That neither sigh nor groan can issue thence;  
But lies as dead, and quite bereft of sense!  
Since then 'tis so: we cannot weep; let's borrow,  
From others help, for to express our sorrow,  
Ye glistering lamps above. ye Northern stars,  
That roll about the Pole, your frozen Cars!  
In Thetis waves, plunge over head and ears,  
That you may have your fill, of brinish tears:  
And by sad influence, make the heavens to lower;  
And to the earth, send down a weeping shower!  
But chiefly on that place, that cursed ground,  
Where Adolph first received his mortal wound!  
Let never grass, nor verdant herb grow there;  
Nor any tree, nor ground itself appear.  
Let it be all a lake, whose face may look,  
Just like the colour of the Infernal brook:  
Like pichie Styx, or black-streamed Acheron;  
Or like Cocytus, or dark Phlegeton:  
That it may seem to all, a mourning vail,  
Which doth the compass of that ground impale:  
And let its murmuring waves, make such a noise,  
As may express to us, the doleful voice  
Of some, that cry, that roar, that shriek, that groan:  
Of some, that mourn, that weep, that wail, that moan!  
That after ages, to their children may  
Tell this sad story, when they pass that way.  
These fouls do mourn, for Swethlands conquering King:  
But these, whose clamours fearfully do ring.  
Are such, as in this place, died by his power;  
And thus express, their horror to this hour!  
Mean while (renowned Prince) sleep thou secure,  
No further pains, nor travels to endure!  
The dreadful Cannons, which so oft did roar,  
And thunder in thy ears; shall now no more  
Disturb thy rest; nor force thee to arise  
In sudden haste, glut now with sleep thine eyes!  
While that a choir of Angels in a ring,  
Shall round about thee blessed music sing.  
FINIS.