GUSTAVE ADOLPHE Roy de Suede Tué à la Bataille de Lutz ente 16. g. bre 1632 agé de 3● ans.    

THE Two Famous Pitched Battles of LYPSICH, AND LUTZEN; Wherein the ever-renowned Prince GUSTAVUS THE GREAT lived and died a Conqueror: WITH AN ELEGY UPON his untimely death, composed in Heroic Verse By JOHN RUSSELL, Master of Arts, of Magdalene Coll. in CAMBRIDGE.  
— Me castra juvant, & lituo tubae  
Permistus sonitus, belláque matribus  
Detestata—  
Printed by the Printers to the University of CAMBRIDGE. 1634.  
And are to be sold by Philip Scarlet.   

AD NOBILISSIMUM SUUM PATRONUM EPIGRAMMA.  
TV mihi sis Phoebus, mea sit tibi Luna libellus,  
Quem facis (en!) radiis ipse micare tuis.  
Sidereos volui titulos, & nomina clara  
Supremâ in nostri figere parte libri,  
Quò possent plenè suffundere luce coruscâ  
Quaelibet in scriptis inferiora meis.  
Jam mea si Livor contorto lumine spectet  
Carmina, percussus sydere, mutus erit.   

TO THE RIGHT NOBLE, TRULY VALOROUS, AND HEROIC GENTLEman, WILLIAM Lord CRAVEN, BARON of Hampsteed, MARTIAL, etc.  
RIGHT HONOURABLE,  
THe ardent affection wherewith the best & sublimest Spirits have ever embraced the Sons of the Muses, is not in any example so apparent, as in that matchless pattern of true Valour and Magnificence, ALEXANDER the Great; who having finished the Conquest of Persia, and hearing every day of more Victories, did thus express his sorrow and discontented affection; Think you to please me with any news, unless ye can tell me that HOMER is alive again? Such was his ambitious love to Poetry. Under protection of this invincible example, I boldly make my Approaches. My Lines are already drawn and perfected, whereby I am resolved to attempt your Lordship's Favour; and I hope I shall win the same without any danger or repulse. Yet do I not think to carry it by any advantageous surprise, or forcible irruption; but only by a free and voluntary yielding, which you may easily perform, without any derogation to your Honour and Valour. And seeing now my speech is to a Soldier, give me leave in that little that I have to speak, to keep the same dialect. Forasmuch as I am now to expose myself to a World of Enemies, I thought it fit to marshal these my lines after a warlike order. I have prefixed the approbations of my judicious in the front of this Book, to be as it were a Vanguard. Then follows in the middle my own Poem, which I account as the Main; and upon this I do most of all rely. Then I have reserved in the last place some few Elegiac Verses; which because they have already past the Pikes of sharpest censures, and come off clear in the judgement of the world, I make them my last refuge, and have placed them (as you may see) in the Rear. In this order I stand ready to receive the assaults of envious Carpers, and curious Critics. I do not stand in any fear of your Honourable acceptation, and gracious interpretation of these my labours. The name and subject of my Book, which is gustavus Battles, is enough to assure me from all doubts & suspicions. Seeing you have not thought much to spend your best blood in defence of his cause, I cannot think you will be backward to patronise the memory of his Name.  
The unfeigned Admirer of your Heroic Virtues, JOHN RUSSELL.   

To the Candid Reader.  
Jest any Cynical Critic should compare my book to the Town of Mindas', which being but a small City, was notwithstanding beautified with stately gates; I am in this respect forced to Apologise for myself, and my learned Friends, who have adorned this small volume of mine with their ample Approbations. Know then, Courteous Reader, that I could not subtract these Encomiastics, without apparent wrong to the subject of my Book: for you shall find that they have imitated that cunning Engraver, who had with such art inwrought his own Image with the Image of Minerva, that they could not be separated without defacing of both: so have my Friends here interwoven my most undeserving Name with the sublime praises of GUSTAVUS, that the one cannot be separated from the other, without manifest disfiguring of the Poem. Besides, there are some that are more delighted with brief & concise Epitomes, then with larger Treatises: these Verses which I have premised, seem to have contracted that which I have more amply handled, the Honour and Praise of GUSTAVUS the Great. And to conclude, that which these Critics would fain make an argument of arrogance and ostentation, seems to me a perspicuous testimony of my timorousness and modesty, in that I dare not enter into the world, without so many to guard me and usher me the way. Farewell.  
J. R.   

TO HIS FRIEND THE AUTHOR, IN DEFENCE OF HIS Heroic Poem.  
WHat wilt thou answer, Poet, for this wrong,  
To make a King thy Subject and thy Song;  
A King, whose Fame and long-lived actions scarce  
Can be contained in measure of a verse?  
O inconsiderate Muse! Of him is't fit  
That every budget brain and common wit  
Should write a farthing Pamphlet? Every one  
At's death can have a verse in brass and stone.  
Thus will censorious Critics talk, and those  
That th' Empire claim of Poetry and Prose.  
Yet care not. Once gustavus was a scoff,  
And Tinker called; at last came bravely off:  
He clipped the eagle's wings, and took from thence  
A quill for thee, Fabritius: art thou since  
Silent? Go, take thy pen, grave Doctor, writ:  
Thy Muse methinks this Poem might excite.  
J. PULLEN, Fellow of Magd. Coll.   

TO HIS FRIEND THE AUTHOR of this Heroic Poem.  
I Nothing find unhappy in thy Book,  
But (what's not thine) the subject. When I look  
Upon thy Muse, and find it full of blood,  
Yet I conclude thy Vein is sound and good,  
And shall live long by that which is not thine,  
But lively represented in thy line.  
That Hero's death thou dost with life declare,  
And in that which thou giv'st thou'lt surely share.  
R. BULKLEY, Fellow of S. John's Coll.   

To my Friend Master RUSSELL, upon this ensuing Poem of the King of Swedens' Battles.  

'TWas a Proud Greek, whose vast Ambition  
Pined for new Worlds, who vowed his Counterfeit  
Should be portrayed on pain of death by none,  
But best Apelles. Pride surnamed him Great.  
And 'twas a prouder Tuscan, misemployd  
His dying thoughts about his Elegy;  
Charging his Marble might be rather void,  
Than not adorned by Prince of Poetry.  
Thus did not Sweden taint his greatness: He  
Suffers all Prose, or Verse. Nor doth his Shade  
Disturb, but help the Artist. Deity  
Accepts an offering from the meanest trade.  
Friend, thy first-fruits are sacred. GUSTAVES Name  
Is then (O Muses) more authentical.  
Nor  be Heresy in verse to claim  
Aid from live Names, and still Imperial.  
He shall preserve thy Papers, and vent more  
Than an enlarged Edition. His Name  
Shall be thy Title too, and fill the door  
Of the rich Shop it lies in; like the Frame  
Of some rare Frontispiece, with neat device  
Tying unto it the Spectators eyes.  
So both in equal tie are excellent;  
Thy Book's His Elegy, He its Monument.   

WHat lose Prose could not pay to Swedens' Hearse,  
Thou hast discharged in thy Heroic Verse,  
Th' Intelligencers Feet, on which he'll run  
Now round the world, like a surveying Sun.  
'Twas greater art to choose thy Theme, then writ  
Some Poems. But to pen it in despite  
Of others grief, or silence, argues Love  
Great as thy Art. And if the People prove  
Thy hand hath rudely oped a public wound  
Newly closed up; the Magistrate's not bound  
(As Athens mulcted Phrenicus) to be  
Their Censor, and to fine thy History.  
No: Let us know, our Gild that Matchless Man,  
Whose Dirge thou singest, hath murdered. Nay, I can,  
And dare tell how too: 'Twas the fond excess  
Of our big thoughts decreased his Happiness;  
Whose modest Soul we vexed with restless cry  
Of love pretended, Proud Idolatry.  
His purer Breast divined as much, while we  
Mad men still tempted him with Prophecy.  
Oh! had this Frenzy rested in the heart  
Only of us the People, little Art  
Might frame a Plea. But our great Rabbins too,  
(Oh Learning, what huge mischiefs mayst thou do,  
Seduced by Pride and Flatt'rie!) nay, those Brains  
That wear the Sacred Cap, through all their veins  
Descried infected blood, whose tainted streams  
Dangered the Nations, whilst noisome steams  
Exhaled as high as Heaven. That starry Sphere,  
Stranger to vapours, could not now be clear.  
Egypt examined Stars, and fathered lies  
On their pure Substances: all Mysteries  
Are pried into, and stretched. The Chiliast  
Takes several shapes; now poses us in vast  
Contemplative just nothings, and then slips  
Into a Cassock, picks th' Apocalyps,  
And shows us Wonders, which poor I dare swear  
His fleering heart well knew were never there.  
The unclaspt Book was read, the Signs unsealed,  
The Trumpets, Phials, and the Beast revealed:  
The Pope and Cesar slain outright, and all  
By GUSTAVE, and by Heaven. This was his fall.  
The Sin was ours; the troubled Virtue his.  
So Evil hasted Goodness to her bliss.  
Now th' An'grams blush: and had not Pyrrhus art  
Excused the letter, when the Authors heart  
Glowed with a lie; by this time Levi had,  
Like Iss'chars' ass, couched under's burden, glad,  
Though strong, to be released. Let this suffice,  
We all confess we slew him, and our eyes  
Shall testify our sorrows. LYPSICH may,  
And LUTZEN tell his Life some half the way:  
What we confess, tells all; perfects the Story  
More than the Annals of his living Glory.  
Oh! this Confession well-penned would be  
His Chronicle, his Tomb, his Elegy.   
T. RILEY, Fellow of Trin. Coll.   

TO THE AUTHOR OF this ensuing Poem, Master RUSSELL.  
HOw dares thy mortal Fancy undertake  
A Theme Divine, unless for Virtue's sake?  
The German Eagle, to advance thy skill  
In praising Swethland, lends a conquered quill.  
Yet when thy Self and lofty Bird have done,  
Neither are able to behold this Sun.  
Go strive to write, and cast away thy pen:  
Repent thyself, and take it up again.  
Sometimes thyself, and sometimes Swethland blame:  
And midst thy praises check his glorious Name.  
Tell valiant Swethland, if thy Eagle brings  
A flight too low, his Greatness clipped her wings.  
CAESAR WILLIAMSON, Fellow of Trinit. College.   

To his ingenious Friend Master RUSSELL, upon his Heroic Poem.  
LEt those soft Poets, who have dipped their brains  
In amorous humours, thaw to loser strains.  
Let Cupid be their theme, and let them pay  
Service to Venus in a wanton lay:  
And let these Rhymers of our silken Age  
Unlade their Fancies on an empty page.  
Mars is thy theme; thy Muse hath learned to talk  
The Cannon-language of the War, and walk  
A lofty March; while thy faint readers dread  
And tremble at each syllable they read.  
Lead on, Stout Poet, in thy Martial state;  
And let these Pages on gustavus wait,  
Armed with verse of proof: and those that aim  
To wound thy Muse, or print upon thy Name  
Their darts of malice, in their full pursuit,  
Charmed like those stones thrown at the Thracian Lute,  
May they forget their message, and in fierce  
Career dance at the music of thy verse.  
And if those eyes, with poisoned flame that shine  
Like Basilisks, shed poison on a line,  
To blot a syllable that sounds the least  
gustavus War, Jove turn them to that Beast.  
Then rest gustavus: do not change thy room  
Within this Book, for any marble tomb.  
Each line's a golden chain to hoist thee fare  
'Bove Fate: then blaze as fastened to a star:  
And for these Leaves presented thee, a bough  
Of Laurel shall adorn the Poet's brow.  
JOHN SALTMARSH, Magd. Coll.   

To his friend the AUTHOR.  
INgenious friend, that dost so bravely sing  
The conquests of the Swethes Victorious King;  
Who by thy thundering lines dost seem to follow  
Aswell the tents of Mars, as of Apollo;  
And in depainting of a bloody fight  
Dost intermingle Terror with Delight:  
Though I could tell thee that thy verses worth  
Abundantly will gild and set them forth;  
Although I might (without base flattery) say  
Thy forehead doth deserve a wreath or Bay;  
Yet I forbear: thy modesty is such,  
I dare not praise, at least, not praise thee much.  
Indeed what needest thou my too slender praise,  
To usher thy so sweetly-soaring lays  
Into the world; since that the very name  
GUSTAVUS will more highly grace the same,  
Then if the rarest Laureates choicest quill  
To pen thy praise should show its utmost skill?  
How richly is thy work rewarded! See!  
Thou makest GUSTAVUS live, GUSTAVUS thee:  
And by thy lofty Muse I know not now  
Whether shall more be honoured, he or thou.  
Swedes Great 
* Anagram of GUSTAVUS  AUGUSTUS! Oh how could I dwell  
Upon that Name! How often could I spell  
Its every sacred syllable; and when  
I've doneed a thousand times, begin again!  
That Name who honours not, Oh may he be  
Overwhelmed with neverdying infamy!  
His blessed Memory who adoreth not,  
Oh may he be eternally forgot!  
Thy book, my friend (if I do not mistake)  
Will please and sell for Great GUSTAVUS sake.  
STEPHEN JONES, of S. John's Coll.   

THE BATTLE OF LYPSICH.  

HAve you not heard the ever-restlesse Ocean  
Beat on the shore with waves continual motion,  
Which fill our ears with sad and murmuring tones;  
Just like the doleful sighs and hollow groans  
Of thousands, that together have conjoined  
T' express the sorrows of a wounded mind,  
For some disastrous Fate; perhaps the death  
Of some dear Prince, untimely reaved of breath?  
They fill the troubled air with confuse cries,  
Which are resounded by the trembling skies;  
Which these sad tunes so often do repeat,  
That now the woody Choristers forget  
Their wont strains, and either stand as mute,  
Or to these notes their warbling voices suit,  
The willing air instructing to express  
To humane ears soul-moving heaviness.  
Sweet Philomela now thinks upon her rape  
And former wrongs; that she may fitly shape  
A tune of lively sorrow, and make known  
The grief of others, fully, as her own.   

Like this was that amazed time, when first  
Our ears those more than frightful rumours pierced,  
Of great Gustavus dismal Fate; with whom  
All then did seem their hopes and hearts t'intombe;  
And did express in sighs and drooping looks,  
Sorrow enough t'have filled most spacious Books:  
You might have read, in thought-discov'ring eyes,  
Volumes of sad and mournful Elegies:  
While Fame doth with a thousand tongues resound  
Such trembling murmurs, as our hearts do wound.   

My fainting Soul, not able to sustain  
So oft redoubled blows, nor such dire pain,  
Sunk to the ground: then over all my limbs  
A frigid sweat and dewy vapour swims:  
A Deathlike sleep closed up my eyes; and I,  
As one eternally entranced, did lie.  
But than methoughts my Genius did appear,  
And words of comfort whispered in mine ear:  
Then led my airy Spirit by the hand,  
Through darksome shades, to that Inferior Land  
And Region, where Unbodied Souls reside.  
There what my fancied thoughts to me descried,  
I now prepare unto the World in verse,  
By favour of the Muses, to rehearse.  
Those two so bloody Battles there I viewed,  
Lypsich and Lutzen, dreadfully renewed:  
But now more furious and a greater ire  
Their bloud-enraged spirits did enfire.   

Oh that those raptures, which then filled my brain,  
Would burn in my imprisoned Soul again;  
That I might so in vivid colours paint  
Those dreadful fights, as should make Mortals faint  
With horror and amaze, and when they read  
My Bloud-besprinkled verse, their hearts should bleed!   

Divine Melpomene, whose chiefest glory  
Consists in sounding of a Tragic story;  
Fill me with vigorous heat, and for a while  
Let thy rapt Fury guide my iron style:  
Send Virgil's Genius to direct my quill,  
His grave Majestic vein do thou instill;  
Or rather Lucan's, whose so lofty rhymes  
Do best befit the Genius of these times.   

But oh! what sudden numbness do I feel  
To damp my boiling blood! and now I reel,  
As when an Epilepsy doth surprise  
Some feeble mortal, and his senses ties:  
Or, when as the Cumean Sibyls breast  
Some dire Prophetic Spirit hath possessed;  
She madly rages, struggles all in vain  
To shake away her Furie-caused pain:  
She raves, she frets, she storms, and tears her hair,  
Stamps with her feet, and like a Ghost doth stare:  
Mean while, within her rage-distracted soul,  
And troubled thoughts, discording Passions roll.  
Thus am I racked, while to my working heart  
My Fancy doth such jarring thoughts impart.  
For this to every Poet is enjoined,  
That he shall feel in his impressive mind  
The real Thoughts and Passions of all those,  
Whom he in verse presumeth to disclose.  
Judge what a world of discords circling run  
Within my breast, like Atoms in the Sun,  
That cross, and meet, and meet, and cross again.  
So many Passions of so many men,  
And such repugning thoughts torment my mind,  
As when two Armies have with fury joined:  
Rage and Revenge march first, with burning Ire:  
Dread, Fears, and Terrors make them to retire:  
Then Shame, and Valour, with malicious Hate,  
Their reinforced Troops precipitate:  
They charge them home: these break, and scattered fly  
Unto their main Battalia, which stood nigh.  
Here dire Despair was ranged, double-rankt  
With Fury, and with Rashness strongly flankt.  
These and a thousand more oppugning Fancies  
Phoebus in my enraged breast advances.   

Faint not, my Muse, but with a fearless pace  
March through the midst of Furies, and outface  
Armies of Terrors, vengeful Wrath, and Ire,  
Affrightful Death, devouring Sword, and Fire.  
Shrink not at all to hear the hellish jaws  
Of thundering Cannons roar with hideous noise,  
Mixed with a thousand shot, that roughly tear  
The tender welkin, and affright the ear.  
Let not their clamorous shouts and confuse cries,  
Which seem to wound the air, and pierce the skies,  
Move thee at all: Let not the yelling noise  
Of some half-murdred wights make thee to pause,  
Or draw remorseful pity from thy heart:  
Be like a Rock of stone; shrink not, nor start:  
Be as regardless of their shrieks and groans,  
As they themselves have been to others moans.  
If to such tender thoughts thou yield'st, my Muse,  
Thy Martial Fury thou wilt quickly lose;  
And none, but fearful Mothers, then will praise  
Thy soft-strained verse, and heart-relenting lays.   

But now a little breath, my Muse, and hear  
The plaints of others, sounded to thy ear.  
The Nymph Germania doth herself present,  
With face disfigured, and with robes all rent,  
And sprinkled o'er with blood: her golden locks  
She tears, and furiously her breast she knocks;  
Then wrings her hands, lifts up her woe-sick eyes:  
And thus at last to the unpitying skies  
She speaks, Oh heavens, how long, how long shall we  
The only subject of your vengeance be;  
Plagued with continual war, dire cruelties,  
A thousand slaughters, and calamities;  
While miscreant Ethnics, who deride thy power,  
Are undisturbed, and flourish to this hour?  
The cursed Pagans laugh, when they behold  
How many miseries on us are rolled.  
The barbarous Turk insults with spiteful scorn,  
To see us Christians by ourselves so torn;  
And on our bodies those deep wounds to bear,  
Which he so much from us himself did fear;  
To see our Forces by ourselves o'erturned,  
Which having joined, might easily have spurned  
Him, and his Vassal Kings; and once again,  
Like their dire Scourge, resistless Tamerlane,  
Have hewed their Armies, as a field of corn,  
Which is by reaping sickles quickly shorn:  
And then their Sultan, in an Iron grate  
Shut, like some monstrous Beast, should curse his Fate,  
And rail upon his Grand-Impostour-Prophet,  
That vagabond Arabian, Mahomet:  
Then, if courage served him, valiantly  
He might dash out his wretched brains, and die.  
Then Stampoldam (now his Imperial seat,  
That overlooks the World) with flaming heat  
Enkindled once, should send such direful smoke,  
As should these Infidels for ever choke:  
Then in black clouds enwrapped, the fumes should whirl them,  
And Devils to the lowest hell should hurl them.  
And thou bloodsucking Tartar, who of late  
Proffredst thine aid, my wounds to aggravate;  
But wert rejected by that powerful King,  
Who his Commission from the heavens did bring,  
To scourge me for the sins of me and mine:  
Dost thou rejoice to see the Powers Divine  
Inflict such rigorous Justice on my Soil,  
Whose very bowels now with torments broil,  
And raging War; like the Sicilian Hill,  
Whose vaulted caverns sulph'rie flames do fill?  
Thou cursed Rover, who dost spend thy days  
In wand'ring up and down a thousand ways;  
Whose cold and barren Climate fears no War,  
Not worth the sword of any Conqueror:  
Cease for to triumph o'er my woeful state;  
Lest at my prayers the heavens precipitate  
A vengeance on thy head, shall equallise  
War's bloody mischief and dire cruelties;  
The dreadful Pestilence, whose poisonous blast  
Into the grave thousands at once shall cast;  
Or pinching Famine, whose long lingering stroke  
Shall by degrees the vital spirits choke;  
Or, what thou fearest most, some rigorous frost  
Shall seize upon thy coldly-sited coast,  
And freeze the very air, that want of breath  
May make you yield unto unsparing Death.  
But why disturb I thus my wretched heart,  
By wishing unto others such like smart  
As I now feel? Would this give ease to me,  
Or any whit abate my misery?  
It would. Oh that the Alwise Providence  
Would on these Miscreants such like plagues dispense;  
That they might roar with their calamities,  
And with their louder clamours drown the cries  
Of my distressed children, whose sad moans  
Do wound my heart, and pierce the very stones!  
How many thousand Mothers at this time,  
Within the limits of my wretched clime,  
Weep without ceasing, and with shrillest notes  
And bitter exclamations tear their throats!  
How many tender Widows curse their Fates,  
By raging War robbed of their dearest Mates!  
How many aged Fathers lift their eyes  
Drowned o'er with tears, to the unpitying skies,  
Admiring that the fulgent Sun displays  
On their so wretched Land his cheerful rays!  
Is there no pity in the heavens at all?  
Cannot the grief of Mortals once appall  
You Spirits divine, that 'bove us do reside,  
And the rapt Spheres do in their courses guide?  
They wonder that the rolling stars still shine,  
And never at their torments do repine.  
If their dire imprecations might prevail,  
They would have had them muffled in a vail  
Of mournful hue, and in a pitchy cloud  
Swollen big with tears their heavenly lustre shroud;  
That with their hearts the whole earth might agree,  
And once again a confused Chaos be.  
Who can these blame that thus excessive moan,  
Who have been spoiled of more lives than one;  
That in so short a time (alas!) have lost  
That which so many cares and years hath cost?  
Cease, cease, my Children: your so woeful cry  
Will make my swelling heart in sunder fly.  
Who can endure such shrieks as pierce my ears?  
Who can, unmoved, view such floods of tears?  
I dare not upward lift my fainting eyes,  
Lest they descry new woes, new miseries:  
For wheresoever I turn me to behold,  
My cities are in flames and smoke enroled.  
Huge heaps of Ruins, Wars dire Monuments,  
Cruel Bellona every where presents.   

All this great mischief and disastrous woe  
From Rome, as from a poisonous spring, doth flow.  
And thou, proud Friar, whose ambitiousness  
A Triple Diadem can scarce depress;  
Thrice cursed be thy deadly pride, that thus  
With wars and ruins hast overwhelmed us.  
Most flintie-breasted Tiger, that canst brook,  
With heart unpitying, and unmoved look,  
To see so many at thy feet to die,  
And fall lower than hell, to keep thee high!  
To see so many Nations choicest flowers  
Cut down by sudden death, in so few hours!  
And all this will not move thee to relent,  
Nor win thee to revoke thy proud intent.  
Thy Predecessors Christians could inflame  
With courage, to a war of better fame:  
'Gainst Saracens t' advance their warlike bands,  
And to reconquer from those Pagan's hands  
Captived Judea, and the Diadem  
Of weeping and forlorn Jerusalem.  
Surely these Infidel's accursed Tribe  
Do covertly with some rich presents bribe  
Thy avarice, that by thy devilish art  
Our Christian unity thou mightst dispart.  
Time will descry the truth, and heavens just Power  
Will on thy head (I hope) just vengeance shower.  
Here, with a sigh, as if her soul were pressed  
To fly away, her mournful speech she ceased.   

Then did I turn mine eyes about, to see  
Whose part was next in this sad Tragedy.  
LYPSICH, that fatal town, did then appear,  
Whose walls & towers trembled, methoughts, with fear,  
As if some aguish earthquake now did strive  
Her very bowels piecemeal for to rive.  
Surely there was just cause of horrid fear,  
So many Furies being now so near,  
Who threatened had to trample under feet  
All that their armed Rage could find or meet.   

Upon a spacious plain, that did present  
Unto the eye a smooth and large extent,  
Two Armies stood, marshaled in fair array,  
Their waving Colours to the wind display:  
Their well-contrived Ranks yet even were,  
Their Files completely strait, their Battles square:  
Their equal spears, their weapons glistering bright  
Did yield, methoughts, a dreadfull-pleasing sight.   

Here the Renowned Great gustavus stands,  
Strongly environed with those warlike Bands,  
Which the cold Region of the North had sent,  
And unto them such hardened bodies lent,  
As, like the roughness of their native Soil,  
Cannot be broken with laborious toil.  
The big-boned Lappians, who with nimble pace  
The swiftest and the wildest beasts can chase:  
Whose precious skins and furs of richest price  
They send abroad for rarest merchandise.  
The Finlanders were there, who, clad in buff,  
Did think their sturdy limbs armed proof enough:  
Better to wound their foes they were prepared,  
Then to defend, or stand upon their guard.  
The warlike Goths, once of renowned Fame,  
Whose Ancestors with fire and sword did tame  
Great Rome itself, and her usurped crown  
Snatched from her head, and proudly trampled down;  
Making her fields to drink the blood that flowed  
From her own children, who in heaps were strowed  
Upon the crimson-stained ground. Their steel  
The sunne-burnt Spaniards too did deadly feel:  
Within whose barren and scorched Territory,  
There still remain some Ensigns of their glory.  
Here were they now, and seemed to reclaim  
Their Predecessors long-obscured Fame.  
And here were troops of Vandals seen, that made  
The Ancient World even of their Name afraid;  
And had as many Kingdom's overrun  
Almost, as doth the all-incircling Sun.  
Those that inhabit near the Dofrine Hills,  
From whose cold tops the snow continual drills,  
Had to this Battle sent an armed Troup,  
That scorned at dangers once to shrink or stoop.  
The duskie-coloured Swethes stood next their King,  
Who now had made their wondered Name to ring  
Through farthest Regions, which so long a time  
Had seemed congealed with their frozen clime.  
Here likewise might you other Nations find,  
Drawn by the vigour of a Martial mind:  
Irish, French, English, and the hardy Scot,  
Whose noted valour ne'er will be forgot.  
There likewise were the German-Saxons seen,  
Who heretofore as much renowned had been,  
As th' ancient Goths, or the adventurous Gaul,  
That did so oft the Roman Hosts appall.  
Such was their number, that even they alone  
As a full Army might themselves have shown.   

Opposed to these, an Army as complete  
For fair proportion, and full out as great,  
Presents its dreadful Front, that seemed to breathe  
Nought less than ruins, wounds, and speedy death.  
Tillie, whom long experience in the war  
Had often taught to be a Conqueror,  
Did range these Troops; and, as he thought, so right,  
And in so firm a posture, that they might  
With ease o'ercome their undervalued Foes,  
Who now were marching on to meet their blows.   

IT was vain with long orations to delay  
Their burning courage, which could brook no stay.  
Like two vast Woods, whose waving tops do dance  
With gentle winds, these mighty Hosts advance.  
The very lustre that their arms did cast,  
Would have a coward killed with lightning blast:  
But to a Soldiers eye not any fight  
Can be presented, that would more delight  
His lofty spirit. And look how Sols bright beams,  
By art redoubled, kindle burning streams:  
So the refracted rays of fulgent steel  
Make Soldier's hearts new burning courage feel.  
Scarce can the fiery Steeds endure the ground,  
Now that they hear the echoing Trumpet sound:  
They champ their kerbing bits, and proudly neigh,  
Vexed that their masters do their Fury stay.  
The Footmen fain would double their slow pace,  
But that they fear their order to displace.   

Now is the Signal given: with a shout  
As loud as thunder, all the warlike Rout  
Do make the air and fields adjacent ring.  
Then to a charged Cannon Swethlands King  
Gave fire: strait doth the swift-winged bullet fly  
Unto their foes with a rough Embassy;  
And in so high a tone delivers it,  
As might so great a King as him befit;  
Speaking like awful thunder, whose dread sound  
Our ears amazes, and our hearts doth wound.  
To second this, were other bullets sent  
From fired Cannons, that so rudely rend  
The first front of their Battle, that you might  
See their fair order now dismangled quite:  
And like a confused heap it doth appear,  
Till resupplied by the advancing Rear.  
Th' Imperials are not slack, but roundly they  
With answering shot their former loss repay:  
A Rank of Cannons, all at once enfired,  
Did presently attain their mark desired.  
The angry Swethes their hellish fury feel,  
Whose rough encounter made them more than reel;  
It makes a spacious breach, and the weak wall  
Of bodies battered piecemeal now doth fall  
In ruined heaps, and with a crimson juice,  
That like a torrent flowed, the ground embrews.   

Help me, my tragic Muse, infuse new strains,  
And re-infire my quite amazed Brains.  
Methinks I feel my vigour to relent,  
Stricken with horror and astonishment,  
To think upon those direful slaughters, when  
Those hellish Engines did so many men  
Dismangle in a trice, and with a blast  
Their noble souls from their stout bodies cast.  
Here a brave Captain, as he fairly stands,  
With words encouraging his warlike Bands,  
His head snatched off among them flies, and there  
Speaks in a language now of dread and fear.  
Here, as another waves his sword on high,  
To dare his foe, a fiery Ball doth fly  
Full in his face, and makes him with a dash  
With his own sword himself in sunder slash.  
There stood another, who enraged did breathe  
Against his Foes revengeful threats of death:  
But as his words yet in the air did fly,  
A double Cannon makes a loud reply,  
And with a greater anger fare did strive  
His words again into his throat to drive:  
What he in vain had threatened to his Foes,  
Makes his own Soldiers feel by reversed blows:  
His shiv'red skull and arms all shatt'red flew  
Backward, and some that stood too near him slew.  
Here one, whom some great shot affrighted, shrunk;  
But all in vain: upon his armed trunk  
The swift-winged Bullet lights; and from his heart,  
With fear and wounds, his soul at once doth start.  
A rank of Brothers and near friends here stood,  
Never more true than now allied in blood,  
Rend by the fury of two Culverings,  
That arms from shoulders, heads from bodies flings;  
Then altogether mixed them in a Mass,  
And with their Limbs strews the discoloured grass.  
Some Demicannons 'mong a troup of Horse  
Did likewise show their cruel murdering force.  
Their Iron Cuirace was of small avail:  
Corslets of Steel and Coats of well-wrought Mail  
Can not divert the fury of such strokes,  
As would have stricken down the tallest oaks,  
That in the Caledonian woods are found,  
Or spread their roots in the Hercinian ground.  
Some Riders wounded are, while th'untouched Horse,  
Feeling his reins now slack, with all his force  
Kicks, flings, and starts until his Master reels;  
Then, most ingrateful, spurns him with his heels.  
Sometime the terror of the shot doth light  
Upon the Horse; the Rider escapes not quite:  
For though the bullet spare him, yet his Steed  
ne'er rests, till of his troubling burden freed:  
Then casts him on the clotted sand, and strait  
Beginning for to sink, with all his weight,  
O'er him that erst he bore he now falls over,  
And him that rid him once he now doth cover:  
To him his back afforded once a room,  
And now his body makes for him a tomb.   

Brave Spirits, but too (alas!) unfortunate,  
How doth my Muse lament your unfit Fate,  
Snatched by those devilish Engines fiery force,  
That murders without mercy or remorse;  
That cut you off at one disastrous blow,  
Ere that you could your fearless faces show  
Unto your Enemies, and make them feel  
Some mortal strokes from your sharpedged steel!   

Cursed be that Hell-sprung wit, that did devise  
This fiery Engine, whose dire Batteries  
Scorn all resisting force that can be tried,  
And most approved valour do deride;  
That humane bodies rend like fields of corn,  
Which by the cutting  are quickly shorn;  
Not so content, but all-dismangled dash them,  
And in a thousand confused pieces pash them:  
Here making one, with his disshatt'red Head  
His best and dearest friend to strike stark dead.   

Renowned Archimede of Syracuse,  
Who by an Engine of thine own didst bruise  
Thousands of foes at once; when from a Tower  
Whole loads of stones upon their heads did shower:  
Thy rare invention now may seem a toy,  
Compared with this, which doth fare more destroy  
At further distance; and, like dreadful thunder,  
Hath often killed some with fear and wonder.  
But thee posterity shall ever praise,  
Because thy new device thou didst not blaze  
To aftertimes; but didst at first intent  
That with thy life the same should have an end.  
But now against that more than hated Name,  
From whom this sulphury invention came,  
Let every Age their fury so enlarge,  
As volleys of dire curses to discharge:  
Let brimstone burn his odious brains; let smoke  
His very memory for ever choke.   

By this time did the Armies nearer press:  
The thundering Cannons for a while did cease,  
And gave permission to th' enraged bands  
To try the vigour of their eager hands.  
Then both at once impetuously do rush,  
And 'gainst each other fiercely counterpush:  
As when two Seas against each other roam,  
And break their billows into spatt'red foam;  
Making the air to tremble, and the shore  
With dreadful sounds and frequent Echoes roar:  
Such was the noise, when these two Hosts did close,  
And made the air to ring with strokes and blows.  
Now Pistols, Muskets, and Caliver play:  
Through fire and smoke they find themselves a way.  
No shot falls now amiss: in this close fight,  
The random-guided Bullets surely light,  
And drench themselves in blood: no armour here  
Can stop their force, which is by much too near.   

Now forward on the close-rankt Pikes advance  
With steady arm, and fearless countenance,  
Shaking their pointed spears, which in the breast  
Of their encountering foes do quickly rest.  
Here was true Fury seen and valorous Spite;  
To which if you compare the other fight,  
It well might seem but Sport, or Play at most:  
When as the shot at distance doth accost  
The unseen Foe, and as it were by chance,  
Guided at random, at the mark doth glance:  
While fiery flashes and thick clouds of smoke  
Do blind their eyes, and the pure air do choke;  
Preventing them from seeing of their foe,  
And who it was that gave their mortal blow.  
Nor here can any one with shining blade  
Revenge the death of his slain Comrade:  
But all their vengeful spleen they do at large,  
And at adventure, in the air discharge.  
But 'mong the sturdy Pikes 'twas otherwise:  
Their Fury is directed by their eyes:  
And at the sight of their enraged foe,  
Redoubled courage in their hearts did flow.  
Here were two Captains met; with pike and targe,  
Like furious Rams, they do each other charge;  
Till at the last the thorough-piercing steel  
Made one of them begin to faint and reel:  
His valour doth outlive his strength; for so,  
When now he cannot wound his conquering foe,  
Forward he falls; that he may ne'er be found  
To have shrunk back, or yielded any ground.  
Then being down, threatenings in vain doth breathe;  
Calls on his soldiers to revenge his death:  
Who, fired with shame and rage, with one joint push  
The short-surviving Conqueror o'rerush.  
He falls upon his foe, whom but of late  
With steady spear his arm did penetrate.  
Now with loud shouts and vengeful cries, they rear  
Their angry spirits fare above all fear:  
Full on the points of spears they forward run:  
There is not one that wounds or death doth shun.  
Now had they raised within a little while,  
Over these Chieftains corpse a funeral pile  
Of slaughtered bodies: For it seemed they meant  
Their Captains should not want a Monument.   

Two brave Conductours here brought on their bands,  
To try the vigour of their hearts and hands.  
The valour of their soldiers they excite  
Not now with words, but with exampled fight.  
Had you but seen two Bulls in fury meet,  
Spurning the yellow sand with angry feet;  
And forward then with headlong force to rush,  
Till that their horns do make the blood to gush  
From many wounds, and their black-speckled Hid  
By this be with another colour died:  
Then might you have conjectured, with what spite  
And burning rage these two brave Soldiers fight.  
This on his sword relies, with it doth hue  
And nimbly cut the others spear in two.  
But he as lightly from his side doth snatch  
A ready pistol, which did over-match  
His neare-hand-threatning sword, and in a trice  
Quite through his breast the fire-sent bullet flies.  
See! here another with his stretcht-out pike  
Quite through the body of his foe doth strike:  
But ere he back again the same could pluck,  
He with another through the heart is struck.  
And now his vanquished foe with joyful eye  
Beholds his Victor on the ground to lie.  
There might you see a noble-couraged Swethe  
Advance himself without all fear of death:  
His furious ire made him alone intent  
To kill and wound, not caring to defend.  
A big-boned German meets him at the point,  
And with their spears they rush so equal joint,  
That both at once were wounded, both withal  
Began to sink, and both at once did fall.   

Not fare from hence you might have seen a crew  
Of sturdy lads, that thrust, and hack, and hue.  
An Ensign they had slain; but could not yet  
Into their hands his waving colours get.  
Oft had they stooped to take them from the ground:  
But from their foes such hindrance still they found,  
Who doubled on their heads such frequent blows,  
That look who stooped, again he never rose.   

Now was the fury of the fight grown hot,  
The air resounded with their frequent shot.  
Fair Victory on both their Hosts doth gaze,  
And doth behold their courage with amaze:  
Now these observes, than those again beheld;  
Knows not as yet to which herself to yield:  
Like to some novice Virgin, whom a Crew  
Of amorous Youths with eager suits pursue;  
Her mind from fixing for a while she draws,  
And yet delights on every one to pause;  
Denies not any, yields unto none:  
To all alike het equal love is shown.  
Have you not seen a field of yellow wheat,  
Upon whose tops some gentle winds do beat?  
They seem to bend, and backward for a while,  
Compelled by force, they orderly recoil:  
Then reassuming vigour, with a blast  
They bend themselves forward again in haste:  
Such was the manner of these warlike Forces,  
Who seemed to charge with interchanging courses.  
Now forward rushed the Swethlanders: anon  
They back retire: th' Imperialists come on,  
And with such fury charge them, as if they  
At that encounter would have won the day.  
But finding good resistance, this their heat  
Is quickly cooled, and backward they retreat.  
The Swethes and Almains now with doubled might  
Renew the vigour of this bloody fight;  
March o'er the bellies of their slaughtered foes,  
And strictly press them with unsparing blows.  
But here a Regiment, in this their Rage,  
Fearing themselves too fare for to engage  
Among their circling enemies, did sound  
A fair retreat, and yield their conquered ground.  
Thus did the well-experienced Swethes, who knew  
When to retire, and when they might pursue.  
They did not their rough charges here perform,  
Like to the rage of some unguided storm;  
Or like the fury of an headless, rude,  
Confused, and disordered multitude:  
But as one body, with so many hands  
Move all at once, obeying the commands  
Of one conductor, who, even as a Soul,  
These Organs doth direct, guide, and control.  
It is not Fury, nor a fearless Heart,  
That wins the day; but Valour mixed with Art.  
This did the Saxons find, who now begun  
Disorderly to waver, and to shun  
The rage of their approaching foe, who fare  
Did them excel in discipline of war;  
And had in often combatings and fights  
Learned many Martial Stratagems and slights.   

Long did the Saxon Troops stiffly sustain  
Their rough encounter, and a while maintain  
The Conquest doubtful. Their dismangled bands  
They fill again with other fight hands;  
Advancing forward with a fearless face,  
Each striving to defend his fellows place,  
Who at his feet did now half-murdred lie,  
Staining the verdant grass with crimson die.  
But still their foes pressed on, who too well knew  
The least advantage gained to pursue.  
Then did they stagger, and scarce willing are  
Their shatt'red ranks and order to repair;  
But flying back in heaps, by force and fear  
They break the ranges of their troops in Rear.  
Words now and threatenings are of small avail:  
Their Duke himself could not as then prevail  
With fair entreat, nor with rough commands,  
To stay the flight of his disscatt'red bands.   

Where fly you Cowards? Think you thus to shun  
The slaughtering sword? You cannot sure outrun  
The nimble horse, who now without all trouble  
Will cut you off, and tread you down like stubble.  
Turn, turn again; once more your forces try:  
Stand to your arms; this is the way to fly  
From threatening dangers. Boldly your breasts oppose,  
And not your backs to your encountering foes.  
See! the brave Swethes still fairly stand in range,  
Nor yet for fear or dread will break or change.  
Shall we forsake them, that have come thus fare  
To undertake for us this dangerous war?  
The world will brand us with eternal shame,  
And after-Ages will deride our Name.   

Fear made them deaf; and now their Prince's words  
Are drowned with noise of shot and clattering swords.  
They fly in heaps and quite disordered ranks,  
Like to some flood that hath born down his banks.   

Tillie rejoicing at so wished a sight,  
Beholding half his enemies in flight,  
Spoke thus insulting; Courage, hearty Blades,  
My noble Soldiers, and brave Comrades:  
The day is ours: let these base Cowards fly,  
And now let us these other squadrons ply;  
The sturdy Swethes, whose Kings victorious Name  
Keeps them from flying, with a forced shame:  
But charge them home, and with unsparing hands  
Rush boldly on their now half-stagg'ring Bands.  
This having said, he, with a spirit as high  
As these his words, among his foes doth fly;  
Who him receive with courage nothing less,  
But with a greater ire his rage repress:  
As when the angry Ocean with a shock  
Strives for to break some firmly fixed rock,  
Which stands unmoved, and his swelling pride  
And vain-spent Malice seemeth to deride;  
Making his waves, which did so rashly roam,  
To dash themselves into a spatt'red foam:  
Thus was the Crabats fury broke in sunder,  
Who fell upon the Swedish troops like thunder.  
And their brave General, who had thought his sight  
Sufficient was his enemies to fright,  
Scaped not unwounded: for the leaden shower  
Feared not at all his mortall-feared Power;  
Though it be still unknown, from whose hand came  
The force that wounded so renowned a Name.  
'Tis not a single wound that can restrain  
Or check his valour; but enraged again  
With doubled fury, he assails his foes,  
Who will not yield him any thing but blows.   

By this time great gustavus wachfull eye  
An opportune advantage doth espy  
To break the squadrons of their ranged Horse,  
Who charged them so oft with headlong force.  
A Regiment their stations quickly change,  
And now stood ordered in a triple range:  
The first rank couched on their knees: the next  
Stood halfway bended: but the third erects  
His armed trunk upright. Thus as one rank,  
Were all their muskets leveled point-blank.  
At both their wings stood troops of ready Horse,  
Prepared to second with a speedy course.  
Then at a word did all give fire, and power  
Among th'enraged Horse a leaden shower,  
That flew as thick as hail, when Boreas' blast  
Doth from the clouds his frozen treasure cast.  
Had I an hundred tongues, an Iron heart,  
And all the help the Muses can impart;  
Yet could I not in this my staggering verse  
The shadow of that slaughter now rehearse:  
When in the twinkling of an eye did fall  
So many wounded wights, Horse, Man and all.  
And that fair Squadron, which so lately stood  
Like to some thick and closely-ranged wood,  
Confusedly doth now appear, and scattered.  
Their order spoiled, their ranks in sunder shatt'red:  
As when in Autumn some tempestuous blast  
From half-dead trees their feeble leaves doth cast,  
And with another garment than her own  
The under-sited ground is thickly strown:  
Thus was the field with bleeding bodies spread,  
That had been wounded by the piercing lead.  
But while the rest, filled with amaze and wonder,  
To see th' effects of this so sudden thunder,  
Knew not which way to turn or bend their faces;  
A Regiment of Horse with doubled paces  
Fly in amongst them; in their teeth discharge  
A second volley; make the breach more large.  
Then forward on with rage and force they push,  
And their fear-strucken foes soon over-rush;  
Who now had lost all mind and heart to fight,  
And did betake them to a sudden flight.  
This their example made their other Bands  
Begin to faint, and fight with trembling hands.  
And as their feeble vigour doth decrease,  
The Swethlanders doth double: on they press  
With greater courage now, then ere before:  
The ground doth swim with streams of humane gore.   

At last, not able for to fill so fast  
Their slaughtered ranks, as the rough Swethes did waste;  
Backward they throng in heaps, disordered quite,  
Not willing now nor able for to fight.  
But while that all tumultuously do strive  
To scape away, they do the foremost drive  
Headlong before them: over these they stumble,  
And so the next, and next to them doth tumble.  
(Strange for to see!) here lay a Soldier dead;  
O'er whom an heap of living bodies spread.  
Sure he enjoyed a fare more noble Tomb,  
Then those which do th' Egyptian King's inhume;  
The lofty Pyramids, whom loud-tongued Fame  
One of the world's chief wonders still doth name:  
Or then that so renowned Sepulchre,  
Which doth Mausolus Kingly bones inter.  
All these were covered with dead marble stones:  
But here is one entombed with living bones.  
The fiery steeds, that never mercy knew,  
Proudly themselves in spatt'red blood imbrue.  
Here 'gainst a sprawling body one doth spurn,  
And from his former wounds makes blood return.  
Another there a living head doth crush,  
And from the same makes blood and brains to gush.  
Meanwhile their masters with unsparing hands,  
Now none resist, murder at once whole Bands.  
And where the sword doth fail, the trampling horse  
Quickly dispatches with an headlong course.  
The former slaughter of this bloody day,  
Compared with this, might seem Bellona's play.  
The Sun no longer could endure this sight,  
But in compassion did withdraw his light:  
And that he might their further rage prevent,  
With speedy wings the welcome Night he sent;  
Who, muffled in a vail of sable hue,  
Quite o'er the heads of these fierce Victor's flew;  
And then before them casteth such a mist,  
As made their hands and vengeful Heat desist.  
So a fierce Lion, a Getulian Swain  
(If antique stories do not miss, or feign)  
Did with his garment muffle o'er the head;  
Then this so furious Beast did stand as dead:  
Stirs not one jot; but, as amazed quite,  
Loses his cruel fury with his sight:  
And while that he thus strangely seems to pause,  
The fearful Swain escapes his devouring jaws.    

THE BATTLE OF LUTZEN.  

THe hel-born Furies, who delight in blood,  
And had of late swum in a purple flood,  
Which not at all their vengeful thirst abates,  
Do now again invoke the Powerful Fates  
To hasten forward such another day,  
Where they in midst of fire and smoke might play;  
And with their poisonous breath and fiery brands  
Inflame gustavus and th' Imperial Bands.  
The All-disposing Providence above,  
Whose presence makes the trembling heavens to move,  
Doth yield to these infernal Hags desire.  
Let none presume a reason to require:  
It was his will; let that alone suffice:  
And sure 'twas just; though that the feeble eyes  
Of our dim mortal judgement never can  
With punctual knowledge heavenly actions scan.  
Weep, mournful Germany; For once again  
Thy children's blood thy wretched fields must slain:  
And to augment thy loss, that Powerful King,  
Who hopes of peace and victory did bring,  
Must there receive his mortal wound, with whom  
Shall thousands more receive their Fatal doom.  
Thy freedom, which thou hast so long time sought,  
Must with more streams of humane blood be bought.   

Oh happy England, who wilt scarce confess,  
Drunk with security, thy happiness;  
That dost enjoy such Quietness, such Ease,  
Such calm Tranquillity, and blessed Peace;  
And that not purchased by laborious Toil,  
By fire, and sword, by ruin, and by spoil;  
Nor by the loss of thy choice Youth, whose Fate  
Thou wouldst not fear 'gainst Heaven t'expostulate:  
But it hath cost thee nothing: for behold,  
On thee th' Almighty hath his blessings rolled,  
Without all labour or desert of thine,  
Merely by instinct of his love divine;  
And hath enriched thee with a gracious King,  
At whose blessed Birth Angels of peace did sing:  
Oh look upon thy neighbour Germany,  
Drowned with a flood of tears and misery;  
Whose towns are ruined, and whose Cities burn,  
Whose fields do flow with blood, whose people mourn▪  
Think but on this all you that cannot weep,  
Who in the arms of happy Peace do sleep.  
Is't irksome to your ears? Your tender Heart  
At these molesting sounds (methinks) doth start:  
From Wars and Woes ye have been so long secure,  
That now you cannot their rough Name endure.  
Are you become like to the Sybarite,  
Whose soft'ned spirit, sottish appetite  
Can no harsh noise endure, nor that shrill sound,  
That doth from hamm'red Steel and Brass rebound?  
And therefore such Artificers as those,  
That did molest their ears with clattering blows,  
By a preventing law they did compel  
Fare off in some obscurer place to dwell.  
Shall these my verses, that with clattering ding  
The strokes of War and furious Rage do sing,  
Displease our British ears, who are of late  
(It seems) grown tender and effeminate?  
Your Amorettoes think them fare too rough,  
Not smooth, nor pleasing, nor half low enough:  
They cannot screw them any ways to suit  
Or consort with their sweet-tuned warbling Lute:  
They are too lofty for a Woman's voice,  
And drown all sweetness with a rattling noise.  
Some hollow-sounding Drum, or Trumpet shrill,  
Or thundering Cannons, that the ear do fill  
With frightful sounds, fit Instruments would be  
To Echo forth my lines melodiously.  
The smaller shot shall serve for repetition,  
While clattering swords shall represent division:  
And the more Discords that my verses show,  
The better Harmony from thence will flow.   

Then cheerfully my lofty Muse proceed:  
There will be some that will thy verses read;  
Such generous spirits, in whose manly breasts  
An ardent love of Fame and Honour rests;  
Who still retain some sparks of that desire,  
Which did their Ancestors brave hearts enfire,  
When they did make Pagans and Cypriots feel  
The direful force of their resistless steel:  
Or when so often, to their lasting glory,  
They did o'errun the  Territorie;  
Or when the World's Disturber they did tame,  
Who Europe's Monarchy alone doth claim:  
Such men as these will fare above thy merit  
Approve thy lines, applaud thy lofty spirit,  
That thus hast chosen with industrious brains  
To show thy vigour in Heroic strains;  
And not in soft-tuned Ditties, or such lays  
As Ladies only and their servants praise.   

The Sun had finished now his annual Race,  
Since Fatal Lypsich with a mournful face  
Beheld gustavus, and his warlike Force  
Her fertile plains die with a bloody source;  
Which scarce as yet fully exhausted appears,  
And scarce had Lypsich wiped away her tears,  
When lo, not fare, upon a neighbouring plain  
Bellona sounds her dreadful trump again:  
And Lutzen is appointed for the stage,  
Where Mars intends to act a second Rage;  
Lutzen, that Fatal Town, whose very sound  
I feel my grief-disturbed heart to wound.  
There Great gustavus, so renowned, became  
(Dire alteration!) only now a Name;  
Once of such power, that his conquering hands  
Can tame stout Nations, and subdue their Bands.  
CESAR himself would blush, and never dare  
His Conquests with gustavus to compare.  
For had he lived to see what skilful hands  
And valiant hearts are in the German Lands,  
Who go not naked now, but clad in steel,  
And will not easily be made to reel;  
Sure he had startled, and his conquering course  
Had been prevented by a stronger force.  
Let not black Envy then presume or dare  
gustavus worthy glory to empair,  
Who conquered had in such a narrow time  
So many Lands, in such a warlike Clime.  
Let the Proud Spaniard to his lasting shame  
His many Conquests of the Indians name:  
And let him boast, how many Millions too  
Of unresisting People there he slew;  
While a few Belgian Merchants in despite  
Of all his Pride, Ambition, Power, and Might,  
Will not be tamed, nor be made to yield,  
But still affront his Armies in the field;  
Having no Kingdom, but a narrow State;  
Yet his Imperial Greatness Check and Mate.  
What Honour then belongs to Swethlands King,  
Who to subjection could such Nations bring,  
That had been so enured unto Wars,  
And ever exercised in bloody Jars!  
Had Mars himself, attended with a Band  
Of dreadful Furies, entered in their Land;  
They would have met him with a fearless heart,  
Nor should his Name or Power have made them start.   

But whither takes my roving Muse her flight?  
I must not here a Panegyric write,  
Nor spend myself in such admiring lays,  
As sound nought else but Great GUSTAVUS praise.  
A Battle is my scope, so dire, so fierce,  
That my sad Muse doth tremble to rehearse;  
And seeks an hundred slights, a while to stay  
The black recital of this bloody day:  
Like to some timorous Hart, that from the cry  
Of Hounds and Huntsmen hastily doth fly:  
Now here, now there he turns; then back again  
Breaks through the woods, scuds o'er the spacious plain,  
And tries a thousand shifts, ere at the last  
Himself on hazard of a fight he'll cast.  
Thus my slow Muse digressions doth premise,  
And large preambles (as you see) devise;  
Only to stay a while, ere she recite  
The sad narration of black Lutzens' fight.   

Swethlands Heroick King his Martial train  
Near Naumburg City spreads upon a plain:  
Of fight yet no hopes there did appear:  
His purpose only was to march more near,  
And join his Forces with the Saxon Bands;  
That so the surer with united hands  
They might to all their foes attempts reply,  
And not be forced coy Fortune's grace to try.  
'Tis found too dear a bargain in these days,  
By valour only for to purchase praise.  
He's valiant now, that wins the Victory,  
Be it by Number, 'Slight, or Subtlety,  
By Stratagem, by Cunning, or by Skill,  
By Courage, Fury, or by what you will.  
And sure 'tis vain for an Heroic Breast,  
That will not but on equal terms contest;  
That scorns advantages to seek, or take,  
But would that Valour should him Victor make;  
While that his subtle foe doth slily watch  
All proff'red opportunities to catch,  
And thinks it no disgraceful cowardice,  
To wound or kill him as he sleeping lies.  
Might Valour of itself alone suffice  
To win the day in every enterprise,  
The noble Swethes with Great gustavus Name  
Would like the Macedons the whole world tame.  
Think it no wonder, that their Mighty King,  
Whose presence only oft did conquests bring,  
Should notwithstanding, like to one afraid,  
Expect, and wish, and seek for further aid.  
It was not fear, but Martial Policy,  
That made him thus to others help comply.  
Had he been ever thus, and ne'er transcended,  
This temperate Virtue had him safe defended:  
He might have lived and flourished to this hour,  
And still should Rome have feared Swethlands Power.  
But 'tis a wonder that he could so rule  
His burning Spirit, and it so often cool  
By moderate counsel, checking Policy.  
Admire who will that he so soon did die:  
My sorrow-strucken Muse admireth more  
That he so venturous was not slain before.   

As now he marches with his valiant Bands,  
Some straggling Prisoners fell into his hands,  
Who did ascertain him, that not one Foe  
Did of their march and near approaching know:  
Not fare off Wall'nstein with th' Imperial Host,  
Securely lay enquartred in that coast,  
Not once supposing that his Enemy  
Was in the field, or now had marched so nigh.  
When Swethlands King heard this intelligence,  
Rapt with exceeding joy, his first pretence  
He changes, now resolves without more aid  
His foes thus unexpecting to invade:  
Then to his Captains shows his new intent,  
Who to his high design gave soon consent.  
Only Knipphausen a stout Colonel,  
And long experienced, liked it not so well:  
And sure he did his judgement strictly join  
Unto the rules of modern discipline.   

The course of War is like a game at Dice;  
Where Skill with doubtful Fortune mixed lies.  
It is the scope of cunning Management,  
Fortune's deceitful hazards to prevent;  
And ne'er to her blind Favour once to stand,  
But when compelling accidents command.  
They that renouncing skill commit their game  
To unknown Chance, deserve to lose the same.  
This fickle Goddess, that the world so fears  
With doubtful hazards, ne'er more blind appears,  
Then when in Warlike actions and in fight  
She doth express her overruling Might.  
Skill joined with Valour, and a Powerful Host  
Can but the conquest promise at the most.  
The Victory is never sure till won;  
And none can triumph till the fight be done.  
The wisest Captains in these modern days  
Do seek to win the conquest by delays.  
'Tis no disgraceful Cowardice to stand  
(Though uncompelled) on the defensive hand.  
It is the surest course and safest held,  
To shun a Battle, but to keep the field.  
They that can best prevent their furious foes,  
Shall win the Conquest without stroke or blows.  
My noble Prince, this is my free advice:  
But if your Royal will shall enterprise  
Some more sublime design, my heart and hand  
Shall readily obey your just command;  
And I would rush alone through midst of Foes,  
Though that a thousand deaths should counterpose.  
Thus grave Knipphausen spoke with stayed look,  
And mind unmoved. But the fiery Duke,  
Bernard of Saxon Weimar, who could ne'er  
Endure the shadow of a seeming fear;  
Whose burning courage could not brook delays,  
His resolution in such words displays;  
Now is the wished time, th' expected hour  
Yielded to us by heavens disposing Power,  
That we may now our former-vanquisht foe  
Extirpate quite with his last overthrow.  
Their hearts are quailed already; and shall we  
Want hearts to meet them who desire to flee?  
Shall we, that have so many Conquests won,  
So many Lands and Provinces o'errun,  
Begin to faint, and show we are afraid,  
And dare not these half-stagg'ring foes invade?  
Oh shame to think! Can we do more than thus,  
If they had vanquished and quite conquered us?  
Shall we be so ingrateful unto Heaven,  
Who unto us such victories hath given,  
To make us fearless in so just a cause,  
And to proceed without demur or pause?  
Shall we neglect so fair and fit occasion  
T'assail our foes with undescried invasion?  
Long, long we may expect, ere once again  
The Heavenly Fates such favour will us deign:  
And be assured, that if we do retreat,  
We quite shall damp our soldiers vigorous heat.  
And make our Enemies become more bold,  
When they shall once our timorous march behold.   

These words, like oil poured on the greedy fire,  
Made Great gustavus burn with fiercer ire.  
He gives command, that with the swiftest speed  
His Royal Army forward should proceed.  
The hollow-sounding drum and trumpet shrill  
The Soldier's ears with cheerful clamours fill;  
While with the air the waving colours play,  
And by their motion point them out the way.  
Forward they troup to Lutzens' bloody soil,  
And with glad thoughts and hopes the time beguile.  
Oft did the strictness of th' enclosing way  
Their hasty speed and expedition stay:  
Egged on with hopes of victory and spoil,  
They did refuse no sweeting pains and toil.  
Had you but seen those valiant Bands advance  
With nimble feet, with cheerful countenance,  
And doubled pace, you would have rather guessed  
That they were hasting to some welcome feast,  
Then marching to their grave, which was th' event  
Of many thousands that then gladly went.  
But notwithstanding all the haste they made,  
So many lets and obstacles delayed  
Their numerous Bands, that now the setting Sun  
Swifter than they his usual race had run,  
And did begin to drown his shining beams  
Within the Ocean's vast encircling streams.   

Some troops of horse that nearest lay, began  
To-skirmish with the Swethes approaching Van,  
Who with much loss of time had lately past  
A narrow bridge, which stopped them in their haste.  
These light-armed Crabats first of all did feel  
The deadly force of their victorious steel.  
From them an Ensign too they did surprise  
Depainted with an ominous device;  
With happy Fortune, and Jove's princely Fowl,  
Whose Name did once the spacious world control.  
But the Finlandian Duke so small a prize  
Beheld with sad and discontented eyes,  
Grieved that so soon the All-endark'ning night  
Did stay their hands, and hide their foes from sight.   

Once the Day's Charioteer his circling pace  
Vouchsafed to stop in middle of his race;  
While Judah's Champion with unsparing hands  
Hewed down the Ethnics Heav'n-accursed Bands:  
But the blessed name of Christians hath a force  
To win from heaven an undeserved remorse;  
And that they may so great a slaughter shun,  
Sol his diurnal Race will swifter run.   

Now doth th' Imperial Grand Commander hear  
Frequent Alarms resounded in his ear:  
Post after Post are sent to certify  
Of their so neare-approaching Enemy.  
Here three at once quite spent and out of breath,  
Yet told their minds by looks as pale as Death.  
Th' amazed Duke startled when he did hear  
That the bold Swethes had gotten now so near:  
Then frets with anger, when he calls to mind  
How all his troops lay scattered and disjoined.  
'Twas now no time to sleep, though the moist Night  
The tired senses did to rest invite.  
He recollects his spirits, and his eyes  
Up to the heavens he elevateth thrice:  
At last spoke thus; Thou Power Omnipotent,  
Great God of Hosts, that dost our Foes prevent;  
Thou All-foreseeing Sentinel, whose eye  
Through thickest clouds our Enemies doth spy:  
Perpetual Glory and divinest Fame  
Be rendered to thy ever-honoured Name,  
That thus hast sent thy messenger of Night  
To stay these cruel Heretics from fight,  
That 'gainst all Piety and humane Laws  
Would trample under feet thy Catholic cause.   

This said, he hastens unto consultation  
For best directions, and for preparation:  
He sends abroad his letters, and commands  
For quick assembling of his scattered Bands:  
Now thinks he on the fittest place t'advance  
His greater Shot and fiery Ordinance.  
Some Mounts were raised already to his hand,  
Where some of Ceres' airy Engines stand;  
But now rough Mars doth shoulder for the place,  
And on the same his warlike Engines trace.  
The pioneers had with laborious spade  
About these Batteries strong Entrenchments made,  
To guard them from their foes, who otherwise  
Might with some headlong onset them surprise.   

Meanwhile did Swethlands grieved King command  
His Royal Army on the place to stand.  
Here for a space their Martial Rage and Spite  
Lay buried in the drowsy arms of Night.  
It was not yet the wished time, which they  
Resolved to make a black and bloody day.  
In fair Battalia lay these warlike Bands,  
With wearied limbs stretched on the frigid sands:  
Their Muskets near them, ready to be found  
At first alarm: upon the champain ground  
Their Spears most orderly erected stood,  
Like to some square and even-planted wood.  
Here one his Helmet casteth from his head,  
And for a pillow underneath doth spread:  
Another there upon a rugged stone  
His drowsy head most willingly hath thrown.  
Now did the dampish Earth their Spirits cool,  
Who scarce of late their burning heat could rule.  
Here on his back a tired Soldier lies,  
And doth behold the stars with steadfast eyes;  
As if in them he searched to descry  
What was appointed for his Destiny;  
And every star, that twinkling doth appear,  
He thinks doth tremble with presaging fear:  
Then turns aside, and folds across his arms,  
And seeks to drown these thoughts with sleepy charms.  
Here did a Soldier with amazed heart  
And troubled thoughts, like one affrighted, start:  
His dreaming Fancy made him to suppose  
That he was round encompassed with foes;  
And too too plainly (as he thought) he viewed  
How they in sunder had their squadrons hewed:  
He snatched his ready Weapon, and begun  
To look how he their feared rage might shun:  
As round he casts his terrour-stricken eyes,  
Nothing but cause of horror he descries:  
He sees his Fellows on the ground are spread  
No otherwise than wounded men and dead:  
He had no heart nor power to fly; but stays  
Till time and space diminished his amaze.  
Many brave Chieftains on the earth did lie,  
Having no other Covering but the Sky,  
No easier Pillow than the rugged Ground,  
No softer Mantle than their Arms they found:  
They stretched their limbs, as if they sought what room  
And space would serve them for a future tomb.   

Renowned gustavus, whom delicious ease  
And Courtly softness never once could please,  
In middle of his armed bands did rest;  
Whose troubled thoughts a thousand cares molest:  
His Royal heart with sadness almost sinks,  
As oft as on his weighty charge he thinks:  
A World of lives now hazarded did lie  
Upon the single fortune of his Die.  
Remembering this, his over-burd'ned Soul  
Innum'rous Fears and doubtful thoughts doth roll:  
It by no humane tongue can be expressed,  
How many cares his noble heart distressed,  
Who for so many thousands did endure  
All that such troubled motions could procure:  
The burning agitations of his breast  
Deprived his spirits of their desired rest;  
And those moist vapours, which the brain did send  
To cause refreshing sleep, their heat did spend.  
So doth Sols scorching beams, which are reflected  
Upon the land where Memphis is erected,  
Where Nilus fertilising stream doth flow,  
Where their high tops the Pyramids do show:  
Those liquid vapours, which the Earth in rain  
Expects to be returned down again,  
Are by the Suns so powerful heat made rare,  
And then do vanish into subtle air.   

Now the soft-gliding Stars were seen t'have run  
Half round the Earth, when Swethlands Prince begun  
With eyes erected to the heavens, t'invoke  
Th' All-pow'rfull God of war: and thus he spoke;  
Dreadful Jehovah, who didst first inspire  
Into my heart this vigorous heat fire,  
And didst inflame me with a Rage divine,  
That I might tame these enemies of thine,  
And free those Christians, who with groans and cries  
Have pierced so often the all-cov'ring skies:  
Be pleased now this Enterprise to bless,  
And our Designs to crown with good success.  
Thou knowst (O Lord) I neither fight for Fame,  
Nor yet on Earth to win a Glorious Name:  
'Twas not the scope of those my painful toils,  
Thus to enrich myself with ill got Spoils:  
Nor do I thus with Wars these Lands overwhelm,  
That I might stretch the limits of my Realm:  
But 'twas the instinct of thy Power above,  
That to this high Design my heart did move.  
If any other sinister intent  
Be in my heart, let not thy aid be lent:  
No further do we pray for Victories,  
Then in thy Name we only enterprise.   

The sable Night being vanished, a black Day  
Gins his fatal lustre to display:  
But Phoebus, who foresaw what dire mishap  
Was drawing on, his mournful face did wrap  
Within a muffled vail, a foggy mist,  
Which did the piercing of his beams resist;  
And thus he seemed to extend the night  
By this obscuring of his cheerful light.   

But notwithstanding such a sad presage,  
Did both these Armies boil with longing rage  
To meet each other, and to try whose steel  
Should soon make their opposites to reel.   

Ranged in Battalia, both the Armies stood,  
Resolved ere long to march in streams of blood.  
Th' Imperial Viceroy did present a fair  
And spacious Front ranked with exactest care:  
To such a distance both their Wings did stretch,  
As sixteen furlongs full their breadth could reach.  
The Right Wing Coloredo did command,  
Under whose Banner ordered now they stand,  
Ready prepared at their Captain's Breath  
Boldly to meet inevitable Death.  
The Duke of Friedland did his colours spread  
In the Main Battle, which by him was led.  
Count Henrick Holck Felt Marshal for that day  
In the Left Wing his Banner did display.  
Here diverse Nations had from countries' fare  
Been sent to try the Fortune of the War.  
There might you see the Austrian, whose Name  
Is branded with an execrated Fame,  
For that their Princes in ambitious rage  
Did with these wars the German Lands engage;  
And to enrich themselves with others spoil,  
So many States with discords did embroil:  
The cold Hungarian, whose bordering lands  
Are ever harried with Turkish Bands,  
Who his best Cities have already won,  
And half his Territories overrun;  
Though he could scarce be spared, yet here he came,  
In this fierce fight to win perpetual Fame:  
The bold Bohemian, whose fruitful soil  
Had been the stage of bloody Mars erewhile,  
Who had them taught to think most dangerous fights  
But warlike sports and tragick-pleasing sights.  
Next unto these was seen the Palatine,  
Whose spoilt Country borders on the Rhine;  
Who, as he flowing by, their ruins views,  
With tears and crystal drops his banks bedews,  
And grieves to think his waves could not overwhelm▪  
And quench the fires of that deplored Realm.  
The stout Bavarian doth likewise claim  
Within this catalogue a noted Name:  
Him did Revenge fire with a Martial spite  
Gladly to try the hazard of a Fight.  
The sunne-burnt Spaniards too were present there;  
And if proud looks their Enemies could fear,  
Sure, though but few they were, yet they alone  
A greater Army would have overthrown.  
Th' Italian, now renowned more by fare  
For amorous Courtship, then for skill in War,  
Yet hither came, resolved for to die,  
Or to defend Rome's hated Monarchy.   

And now, my Muse, repeat each great Commander,  
That did attend Swedens' Imperial Standard:  
For sure it is not fit their Names should die,  
Or yet in dark oblivion buried lie.  
Duke Bernard, the sole Glory of the day,  
The Left Wing did for their prime Guide obey.  
The King himself did the Right Wing command,  
And at the Head of Steinbocks Troops did stand.  
The Battle was conducted by Grave Neel,  
A valiant Swethe, and clad in shining steel.  
Betwixt them and the Rear a complete Band  
Of Musquettiers did Hinderson command,  
A hardy and experienced Scot, whom Fame  
Hath in these wars eternised with a Name.  
The Battle of the Rear Knipphausen led,  
A Noble Soldier, and a skilful Head;  
To whose fair conduct did their Enemies own  
The greatest part of their sad overthrow.  
The Right Wing Bulach led, a Colonel  
Of no small Spirit, as his foes can tell.  
Ernest of Anhalt did the Left Wing guide,  
A man in Wars well exercised and tried.  
Behind their backs, and in the utmost Rear,  
A Regiment of Horse reserved were,  
Which are by Oeme conducted, whose stout heart  
Not any dangers could have made to start.   

Now had gustavus speech his soldiers fired,  
And double vigour into them inspired:  
Make me (says he) your Pattern; if you see  
That once I shrink, I give you leave to flee.  
This having spoken, without further pause,  
With speedy hand his shining blade he drawn:  
Then wavinged o'er his head, he doth advance  
Toward his Foes with fearless countenance.   

And now their throats those fiery Engines stretch,  
Whose sound and fury such a distance reach,  
And ere one can behold or see his Foe,  
Doth wound him deadly with a farre-sent blow.  
In Aetna's sulph'rie cell enclosed doth lie  
(If we will credit grave Antiquity)  
A Monstrous Giant, who is prisoned there,  
For that to fight 'gainst Heaven he did not fear:  
As often as he turns his sides for room,  
He fills Trinatria with a pitchy fume,  
Disgorging from his hellish jaws such smoke  
And dusky flames, as the pure air do choke.  
Even thus black Lutzen for a time did shroud  
Her mournful face within a pitchy cloud,  
Proceeding from the Cannon's fiery breath,  
That ne'er speaks less than slaughtering, wounds & death.  
No sight doth now appear, but the bright blaze  
Which the inflamed sulph'rie dust doth raise.  
Here many Noble Spirits, who did scorn  
To shrink for dangers, were in sunder torn  
By those resistless Balls, whose furious Course  
Cannot be stopped by any humane force.   

Oh how my Muse deplores the Fates of those,  
Who nothing wished but to behold their foes;  
That so their Valour, when they once had tried,  
Might by their Enemies be testified!  
Some murdering shot their noble thoughts prevents,  
And furiously their corpse in sunder rents;  
And, which their manly hearts could not endure,  
Kills them within a cloud of smoke obscure.   

The angry Steeds, offended at the noise  
That thundered from the Cannon's iron jaws,  
Do fling and spurn; and scarce the kerbing rain  
Can their proud spirits in any rank contain:  
They fain would rush through midst of smoke and fire,  
As if their breasts did burn with greater Ire.  
The slaughtered heaps that round about them lie,  
Cannot at all their Courage terrify:  
The brazen Trumpet Echoes in their ears,  
Whose pleasing sound doth fright away all fears.   

What Muse is able to rehearse or tell  
What direful slaughters in this fight befell;  
When humane Bodies only do oppose  
Against the Cannon's castle-rending blows,  
Whose Fury would make hardest rocks to shiver,  
Whose very sound doth make the earth to quiver,  
Whose hellish breath is able to command  
Most firm-cemented stones to fly like sand?  
Squadrons of men were too weak walls to stay  
Such dreadful force, as would have found a way  
Through Rocks of hardest iron, and would make  
A spacious Tower with its blast to shake.   

No wonder then to see the field so spread  
With scattered limbs, and bodies strucken dead;  
When as the Cannon and the Culverin  
Their flaming fury round about do fling.  
A murdering Curto here a rank doth spoil,  
And there another sweeps away a file:  
A brace of Demi-cannons here doth play,  
Which through a squadron make a rugged way.  
So blustering Boreas, when his rage he doubles,  
And Sea and Land with furious motion troubles,  
From sturdiest Oaks their rended branches throws,  
And all the field with these his ruins strews.  
The unaffrighted Swethes marched forward still,  
And up again those breaches quickly fill.   

Valiant gustavus with an angry eye  
Sees how his foes their greater shot did ply  
With too too much advantage: for he found  
Their Pieces mounted on the higher ground;  
And on firm platforms the Imperialist  
His Ordinance could traverse as he list,  
While that the Swedish more uncertainly  
Did in their motion at their Foes let fly.  
The Swethes had left them now no other way  
To hinder this their so unequal play,  
But on their Cannon's mouths to march, and so  
To stop their throats, and make them overthrow  
Their own defenders. For these Engines are  
Of such a hellish temper, that they care  
Neither for friend nor foe; but both alike  
With equal slaughter will their fury strike.   

In ancient fights, when as they used t'advance  
In their first front a square of Elephants,  
Who wheresoever their unresisted force  
They chanced to bend, they made an headlong course,  
And with their massy Bodies over-laid  
All that their fury would have checked or stayed:  
Sometime on their own Squadrons they would turn,  
And under feet their chiefest friends would spurn  
With such a vengeful Rage, as if that those  
They had mistaken for their deadliest foes.  
Thus in these modern Wars it oft doth chance,  
That the loud-roaring Shot and Ordinance  
Being once reversed upon their friends will thunder,  
And without mercy tear their ranks in sunder.   

Courage, my Hearts, cries Swethlands noble King;  
And than his troops through showers of lead doth bring  
Just in the Cannon's face, who roared and spoke  
So loud, that all the neighbouring Hills did quake.  
But in their way a traverse ditch was made,  
From whence with frequent shot their Enemies played  
Full in their teeth. This trench them safe did hide,  
And made them all the Swedish shot deride;  
Till the provoked Swethes came storming on,  
And made them wish them further off and gone.   

At that same time the Crabats had a mind  
To fall upon their carriages behind,  
To seize upon their Arms and Ammunition,  
And to blow up their Powder and Provision.  
Bulach observes them with a watchful eye;  
He charged them home, and made them quickly fly.  
These light-armed Crabats never use to stand  
For any space, and fight it hand to hand;  
But if at first encounter they have missed,  
They then resolve no longer to resist;  
But turning faces do retire amain,  
Waiting till Fortune shall be pleased again  
Some fit opportunity to send,  
And then th' are ready for to reoffend.  
Thus the wild Hawk, whom never humane art  
Hath yet instructed with a constant heart,  
With short and sudden flights pursues her prey,  
And will not long in such an action stay:  
If that she cannot win them with a snatch,  
For some more fit occasion she will watch.  
But while that Bulach did return his Horse  
To their first station with a wheeling course,  
They break their order, and had now begun  
Not in fair Squadrons, but in heaps to run.  
Surely it is no easy thing to force  
So many Regiments of headstrong Horse  
To keep a full proportion in their speed,  
And not beyond their ordered bounds proceed.  
But then the heavens, unwilling to permit  
Their Foes should spy a season too too fit  
To reassail them, at the instant space  
Did with a vap'rie missed surround the place,  
And hides them, till their confused cornets are  
Rallied again, and made complete and square.  
Thus Venus once her warlike Son did shroud  
Within the circle of an hollow cloud;  
Which armour, though but weak it was, prevents  
The blows of Fortune, and all feared events.   

Now bold gustavus and th' Imperial Horse  
Had met each other with an headlong course.  
A Regiment they were of Cuiriassiers,  
Whose complete Armour freed them from all fears.  
But thou gustavus, in whose haughty breast  
Not any spark of fear could ever rest,  
Thy offered Armour didst refuse, and chose  
Thy Royal Body naked to expose  
Against a storm of lead, which oft doth pass  
Through hardest steel, through iron, & through brass.  
'Tis not a valiant Heart, and Coat of Buff,  
That in these wars is Armour proof enough.  
Rare Jewels do deserve a costly Case,  
And to be lodged within the safest place:  
But Thou, the rarest Jewel of this Age,  
O'erswayed I know not by what Martial Rage,  
Wouldst not at all thy Princely limbs enclose  
In any Arms, or Steel repulsing blows.  
Was it because thy too too narrow Fate  
The Cassiopeian star did antedate,  
Whose glorious rays were seen but for a time  
To be displayed over thy warlike clime?  
Or was it, as w' have all conjectured since,  
Our great unworthiness of such a Prince,  
That thus hath short'ned thy victorious days,  
Which hath all Europe stagg'red with amaze?  
If ardent wishes might have proved charms,  
Thou shouldst have had impenetrable arms,  
Of such well-temp'red Steel, and of such might,  
As should a Culverin deride and slight;  
As should have made a Cannons Massy Ball  
Without transpiercing back again to fall;  
Of firmer Metal, than that solid Plate  
Which Vulcan's Cyclops once did fabricate  
For Venus' Son, when he the Latian soil  
With farre-sent wars and slaughters did embroil;  
Of better temper, and compacted more  
Than that same Armour which Demetrius wore,  
Which the Greek Artist did so firm contrive,  
That without fracture it could backward drive  
A massy arrow from an Engine shot,  
And never shrink, nor give, nor yield a jot.  
But these our wishes of no virtue were:  
They with our breath are vanished into air.   

For see! Renowned gustavus murdered lies.  
Here with full tears my Muse doth close her eyes,  
Not willing longer to behold the light;  
But fain with him would vanish out of sight.  
He that could never conquered be, is slain;  
And He that ne'er would yield, is prisoner ta'en.  
He, upon whom the hopes of thousands stood,  
Is sunk, and now lies weltering in his blood.  
The Army's life is stricken with pale death:  
Like-dying men they struggle (see!) for breath.   

He, from whose hand was sent that cursed lead,  
That with gustavus struck so many dead,  
Lived not to triumph, no nor scarce to view  
What he had done: a Storm of Bullets flew  
Like lightning at him, and his wretched Soul  
An hundred ways did from his Body roll.   

But soon as e'er th' Imperialist had found  
That Great gustavus had his mortal wound,  
With doubled Fury and courageousness  
Th' amazed Swethes they did both charge and press,  
Who now began to shrink and backward start.  
Oh! can you blame them, when th' had lost their Heart;  
Him, whom his Foes still feared, though he were slain,  
And thought it Valour for to wound again  
That Royal Corpse, whose very Breath and Name  
So many Armies heretofore could tame?   

Just at this time a dusky Mist did fall:  
The heavens lamented his sad Funeral,  
And so amazed his Foes, that they forget  
To bear away his Body: For as yet  
Among a heap of slaughtered Corpse it lies;  
A rueful Spectacle to mortal eyes,  
To see him laid so low, that was of Late  
The glorious Head of such a mighty State.  
But by this time the Swethes had recollected  
Their Spirits, and now again their hearts erected.  
Stollhanshe, enraged with a furious course,  
Leads on a Regiment of nimble Horse,  
Who gave th' Imperialist a charge so hot,  
And with such frequent volleys of their shot,  
As they not able to endure, begun  
To yield their ground, such furious blows to shun.   

Then the sad Swethes did raise a mournful cry,  
When on the ground their murdered King they eye;  
Whose bloud-distained Corpse in heavy sort  
From fury of the Battle they transport.  
Meanwhile the Swedish Foot did backward beat  
Th' Imperialist, and made them to retreat.  
Grave Neels, a valiant and courageous Swethe,  
That never cared for wounds, nor feared for death,  
His Yellow Regiment so bravely led,  
That now they might have died their Name quite red.  
And Winckle too with his Blue Regiment  
At that same time so stoutly forward bend,  
That now the Wall'nsteiners did gladly choose  
Their ground and Cannon both at once to lose.  
But then the Mist to such a thickness grew,  
That the enraged Swethes could not pursue  
This their advantage; but were then compelled  
To stand and pause until the mist dispelled.   

At that same time a sudden strange affright  
On part of the Imperial Troops did light,  
That with such terror struck their courage dead,  
That strait they turned their bridles, and then fled;  
Not once their eyes reflecting back, to view  
If any foes behind them did pursue.  
Some muttering tongues a fearful rumour spread,  
That all their Troops were fully vanquished.  
Some fifteen hundred Horse were then beheld  
With swift Career to gallop out of field.  
Fear taught them haste, and made them cruel too;  
For in their headlong speed their friends they slew:  
Their Bedets and their Women in the Rear  
They trampled down, and some they killed with fear.  
There many Ladies, who that day did wait  
With trembling hearts upon their Husband's Fate,  
Fling from their Coaches, than their Harness part;  
(What will not fear enforce a tender heart?)  
In Manly posture did these Females stride  
Their sturdy Beasts, and so away they ride.  
These fear-tormented Wights my Warlike Muse  
Doth scorn to follow, when none else pursues.  
Return we to those Noble Hearts, who ne'er  
Would shrink a jot, though all the world should fear;  
That now in midst of fire and smoke did strive  
Their Enemies before them for to drive.   

Now Pappenheim being come, did reinforce  
Th' Imperial troops with new supplies of Horse:  
He added Courage to their staggering Bands,  
And made them charge again with willing Hands.  
He ranged himself in the Sinister Wing,  
Which (as he thought) opposed Swethlands King.  
But as his Cornets now stood ordered fair,  
And he himself did for the Charge prepare,  
A Bullet from a Falconet is sent,  
Whose deadly force his arm and shoulder rend:  
Soon it transcoloured his shining Steel  
With blood, and made this haughty Captain reel;  
He that the town of Magdenburg did spoil,  
And levelled all her buildings with the soil;  
Whose Execrations, as we may presume,  
Did hasten on his unexpected Doom.   

But when his Captains and Commanders saw  
Their General his latest breath to draw,  
He's slain, He's slain, aloud they all did cry;  
Then facing it about, away they fly,  
Ere they had fought one stroke, or in the field  
The faces of their Enemies beheld.   

But those Imperials, whom his presence set  
On a fresh charge, stood to it stiffly yet,  
And with such massy Squadrons overlaid  
The Swedish Troops, that they were backward swayed.  
Here Coloredo, and Tersica too,  
With Picolomini, the fight renew  
With no small Fury, and with many hands  
Which light upon Grave Neels and Winckles Bands.  
The first of these above the knee being hurt,  
His Soldiers from the Battle did transport,  
Though after this he did not long survive.  
And thou brave Winckle wert fetched off alive  
With double wounds. But thy Vice-Colonell  
Was stricken down, and did not scape so well.   

Though thus th' Imperialist victoriously  
Did for a while the Swedish Squadrons ply,  
And now his Cannon had resumed again,  
Which erst he lost; yet for it was he fain  
T' exchange so many of his bravest men,  
The flower of all his infantry, and then  
So soon their deer-bought bargain to give over,  
Which the bold Swethes quickly from them recover.  
There did old Bruner on th' Imperial part,  
A skilful Captain, lose both life and heart.  
The young Count Wall'nstein by some unknown hand  
Was likewise there shot dead upon the sand.  
There Fulda's Abbot died, whose sacred head  
Was pierced by the rude and impious lead,  
That never to distinguish yet would learn,  
Nor be conjured a Mitre to discern  
From a steel Helmet, but impartially  
At all alike his unstaid force doth fly.   

Here had the fiercest of the Battle been,  
Here likewise was the greatest slaughter seen.  
The sturdy Swethes had learned to fight and die;  
But never yet had learned to shrink or fly:  
The ground, which erst their warlike hands defended,  
They cover with their Bodies now extended.  
Death well might win from them their lives; but lo,  
Their ground he cannot force them to forgo.   

But now Knipphausen, who with watchful eye  
The slaughter of his Vanguard did descry,  
Most ready is to stop encroaching fear:  
He sends them up two Brigades from the Rear:  
The one Count Thurn, the other Mitzlaffe led,  
Who gladly did their waving Colours spread,  
And marching forward with a speedy pace,  
Their now triumphing Enemies do face.  
Having within a reaching distance got,  
They did salute them with their thundering shot,  
Which without ceasing they so roundly plied,  
That now th' Imperials hearts were terrified:  
Being so lately tired, they could not  
For any space endure a Charge so hot.  
What could be done by Valour or by Skill,  
Was there performed; they stand it out, until  
The eager Swethes by force and weightiness  
Expelled them from the place they did possess.  
Once more th' Imperial Cannon they had won;  
And turning them, to thunder now begun  
Against the Wall'nsteiners. At that same hour,  
Bernard, that noble Duke, with all his Power  
Of Horse and Foot fiercely assails those bands  
And Regiments, where Coloredo stands;  
Who did as then, like some unmoved rock,  
Receive th' impression of his mighty shock:  
At which the Duke did slacken his first heat,  
And back again did orderly retreat.   

But here once more the vap'rie missed descended,  
And for a while both sides from blows defended.  
But when this cloudy curtain drawn aside  
Gave space to both the Armies to be eyed,  
Wall'nstein did two of his chief Captains send  
To see what now the Swethlanders intent.  
At that time Bernard and Knipphausen joined,  
And both together had their Troops combined:  
Their shatt'red Regiments they did repair  
With fresh supplies, and made them strait & square.  
These Scouts returned, and to their Duke relate  
How that the Swedish meant to iterate  
The fight afresh and did in Battle ray  
Their bloody Ensigns once again display,  
And orderly were marching on amain,  
Resolving for to conquer or be slain.   

Duke Bernard doth espy th' Imperial Horse  
Retreating from them in an even course;  
Then twenty Cannons did he make to roar  
With such a vengeful fury, that they tore  
Both Horse and Man, defaced both rank and file,  
And their fair Martial order quickly spoil,  
Making their troops confusedly to show,  
While on the grass their mingled blood doth flow;  
And which before not any colour knew,  
But the fresh green, is died with purple hue.  
Here the proud Steed, who scorned & spurned the ground,  
Stretched dead upon the same is quiet found:  
And there another, who did fiercely neigh,  
And bravely did his reared crest display,  
Is with a fire-winged bullet stricken dead,  
And mangled lies without a crest or head:  
Here was a file of Horsemen cut in sunder  
By direful force of this resistless thunder,  
While th' untouched Horse do start and fling about,  
And so the next disorderly do rout.  
The Swedish Cornets soon th' advantage spy,  
And with a sudden charge upon them fly.  
Before it thundered; now a storm of hail  
And smaller shot their staggering troops doth quail;  
And then these haughty Cavaliers begun  
With swift and more disordered pace to run.  
Their infantry no better than did fare;  
These also by the Swethes repulsed are,  
Who now pressed on, and plied their Volleys round,  
And shouldered out th' Imperials from their ground.  
As when two Currents do adversely roll,  
And seek each others motion to control:  
A while they seem poised with an equal force,  
And both alike repel their spatt'ring source;  
Till one of them assisted with a blast,  
The others waves doth headlong backward cast:  
Thus did the Swethes by force and Martial toil  
Compel th' Imperials backward to recoil.  
But those that in the mud-walled Gardens lay,  
Fare more securely for a while did play,  
Under protection of those earthen Banks,  
Upon the Swethlanders encroaching ranks.  
But they, enraged at this unequal fight,  
Advanced towards them with a vengeful spite;  
And like a Tempest stormed upon their trenches,  
Which soon with slaughtered blood their fury drenches.   

And now the Sun, wearied with this sad sight,  
Began from them to hide his shining light:  
He now did seem with his declining beams  
To kiss the Ocean's azure-coloured streams;  
When lo a rumour was dispersed by some,  
That Pappenheims' Foot-Regiments were come:  
Duke Bernard then rallies again his Horse,  
Resolved t'assail them with his utmost force.  
But when the Signal was again resounded,  
The cheerful Soldiers, as no whit astounded,  
Strictly did each embrace his Comrade,  
And, Must we charge them once again? they said;  
Then let us bravely and with manly Hearts,  
And like true Soldiers, act our latest parts.  
Then with such rage and fury did they close,  
As if they had reserved all their blows  
For this last onset; and those new-come Bands  
Did quickly feel their over-weightie hands:  
They found that though the light did still decrease,  
Yet the stout Swethes would not their fury cease.  
After they had sustained for a while  
Their rough encounter, and no little spoil,  
They did betake them to a shameful flight  
Under protection of the wings of Night,  
Leaving the field to their victorious foes,  
Who on the same their wearied limbs repose.  
Among his wounded Friends and Enemies,  
On the cold ground the conquering Soldier lies;  
And ne'er complaineth of so hard a Bed,  
Where VICTORY her pleasing arms hath spread.   
FINIS.   

AN ELEGY UPON THE IMMATURE AND MUCH LAMENTED DEATH OF that most Christian Soldier and Renowned Prince, gustavus THE GREAT, King of Swethes, Goths, and Vandals; etc.  
Composed immediately after the first rumour of his death, by JOHN RUSSELL.  
¶ Printed by the Printers to the University of CAMBRIDGE. 1634.   

An Elegy upon the death of the King of SWEDEN.  

WHat strange sad silence doth the world astounded?  
Why doth not Fames still echoing 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 praisse to Swedes victorious King.  
Was this a dream and fancied apparition,  
And now is vanished like a fleeting vision?  
Can 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 German 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: Swethland 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 Cannons, 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, 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 its fury's 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, & death.  
Had Turk, and Tartar, and the Triple Crown  
That awes the Christian world, and treadeth down  
Monarches 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 Prohibition.  
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 not we then breathe 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 pincheth it so straight,  
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, so 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 ye 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 chief 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 th' Infernal brook;  
Like pitchy Styx, or black-streamed Acheron;  
Or like Cocytus, or dark Phlegeton:  
That it may seem to all a mourning vail,  
That doth the surface 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 souls 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.   

Meanwhile, 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.   

EPICEDIUM, SIVE Carmen Funebre, GUSTAVI ADOLPHI, Suecorum, Gothorum, & Vandalorum, etc. Regis Invictissimi MEMORIAE SACRUM.  
QUisquis es, & tumuli spectas haec Marmora nigri,  
Quae cernas, oculis perlege flebilibus.  
Ille, cui vivo libârunt sanguinis undas,  
Defunctus lacrymas vendicat (ecce!) tuas.  
Nónne vides, madidis ut splendent Marmora guttis?  
Sudorem lapidum forsitan esse putas:  
Sive repercussos quos frigida saxa vapores  
Duritie nimià congenuêre suâ.  
Ah! non sunt. Sacris, Spectator, credito Musis:  
Sunt lacrymae, atque oculis debita rapta piis.  
Nè numerum stupeas: tota hîc Europa dolores  
(Ut cernas) madidos egemuêre suos.  
Et, nisi quòd Pietas vetet hoc, mactare parâssent  
Ad tumulum vitas millia multa suas.  
Nil minùs in campo tecum, GUSTAVE, libenter  
Magna Caterva (vides) occubuisse velint:  
Et, quò descendas ad Regna Inferna triumphans,  
Victorísque instar clara Trophaea feras;  
Captivorum Vmbrae moestè tua Signa sequuntur:  
Implentur diris Tartara nigra sonis.  
Invidiâ & lacrymis iterum sibi vulnera figunt;  
Et miserè subeunt bis sua Fata necis.  
Sed tu magnanimâ cinctus, GUSTAVE, cohorte,  
Faustis & niveis pergito vectus equis;  
Donec in Elysii campis spatieris amoeni:  
Illìc Heroum turba beata manent.  
Secula felices ducunt sine fine futura,  
Aeternísque ardent pectora laetitiis:  
Et feriunt aures mortalibus usquè negati  
Ca●●us, Siderei quos sonuêre Poli.  
Haec mihi divino retulit spiramine Phoebus,  
Et jussit numeris reddere nota meis;  
Nè Suecus, vel qui GUSTAVI funera deflent,  
Immersi lacrymis in sua Fata ruant.  
Qui visus fuerat violento Numine raptus,  
Et quasi devictus succubuisse neci,  
In nova migravit felicia Regna; Triumphat,  
Ostentans Stygiis magna trophaea diis:  
Inter & Heroas, & coetum Semideorum,  
Jam ducat laetos & sine fine Choros.  
J. R.   

DIALOGUS. Vmbra GUSTAVI ADOLPHI, & Fama.  Umb. 
QVò ducis? Quò Fama juvat volitare? recessus  
Quos petis ignotos? Patrias jam liquimus oras.  Fam. 
Me duce carpe viam: sedes tibi Fama beatas  
Ostendet. Petimus divisos orbe Britannos.  
Non unus Suecûm GUSTAVO sufficit orbis.  Umb. 
Siste fugam; satìs est nobis: de Marmore surgit  
In Patria Tumulus; celso struxêre Columnas  
Vertice subnixas, Monumentáque splendida fulgent.  Fam. 

Quae Monumenta sonas? memoras quae Marmora?  
GUSTAVI Manes angusto pixide condi.  
Fama & Fata vetant: longè meliora parantur Sordent  
Ossibus (en!) Monumenta tuis: non fictilis urna  
Te capit; at Musis descripta volumina sacris  
Nomina GUSTAVI aeterno splendore fovebunt.  
Optatas jamjam Musarum attingimus oras.  
Cernis, ut irriguis stagnare paludibus undae  
Contendunt, geminóque procul Mons vertice surgit?  
Pieridum ille cluit Parnassus. Limpidus amnis,  
Deliciae Phoebi, doctis hîc labitur undis.  
Hîc Vatem, GUSTAVE, tuum spectato sonorum,  
Cui mentes animúmque afflârunt Numina sancta.  
Cernis, ut incedit sudans stipante cateruâ  
Pieridum? Flammis (en!) luxuriantur ocelli:  
Oratument. Furit haud aliter Cumaea Sibylla,  
Fatidicos quoties ignes inspiret Apollo.  
Ecce locum sparsum foliis, ubi Fata recondit  
Inclyta GUSTAVI, mediísque insculpat ovantem  
Te spoliis. Juvat has latè dispergere Chartas,  
Nomina GUSTAVI resonent ut murmure rauco  
Et Sylvae, & Venti: responsans accinet Echo.   

Jam patrias sedes repetásque cubilia terrae:  
Et dum Terra Parens cupidis circundabit ulnis  
Ossa, gemens secum tua Fata suprema volutet;  
Insuetósque halitus, tanquam suspiria, mittat,  
Percutiénsque sinum tremulo eructabit hiatu.   
J. S. Magd. Coll.  
FINIS.