AN ELEGY ON HIS EXCELLENCY Lieutenant-General Tolmach. By EDM. ARWAKER.  
LICENCED, August 3. 1694. EDWARD COOK.  
LONDON, Printed for Francis Saunders, at the Blue-Anchor in the Lower-Walk of the New-Exchange in the Strand, and Sold by Randal Taylor. 1694.   

AN ELEGY ON His Excellency Lieutenant-General TOLMACH.  

SINCE Heaven, from Albion's once loved Isle estranged,  
Has into frowns its benign Aspect changed;  
And pleased to interrupt her joys,  
The blessings she in her great Tolmach found,  
With which her Fields, while graced with him, were crowned,  
Severely in their Author them destroys,  
And in her tenderest part gives her a Mortal Wound:  
Why, in this great occasion to complain  
Does Albion seem insensible?  
O why suppress her Sighs, her Tears restrain?  
Nor offer at her Patron's Hearse  
A Sacrifice of Monumental Verse?  
That might her grief great as her sufferings tell;  
And Celebrate the mighty name  
That swells the Registries of Fame,  
That Name, whose just Applause is the main source of hers?   

II.  
Rouse, you ungrateful Scribbling Crew;  
Who with your tribute of gross flatteries come  
To wait on every meaner Tomb,  
But where you should be loudest-tongued, are Dumb;  
Think what is to the name of Tolmach due;  
Of whom the wonders you declare  
So far from Adulation will appear,  
They cannot reach his glorious Character.  
Justly to him your praise belongs,  
Whose great exploits gave you a copious theme,  
And did inspire each Muse with thoughts sublime,  
In imitation of them,  
But still, alas! inferior to him,  
The noblest Subject; and the best rewarder of your Songs▪  
For as his Virtue did exalt your strains  
Above the pitch of Common thought and sense,  
He amply did requite your pains  
By his unparalleled Munificence;  
He made your Laurels fructify,  
And raised you to the heights of Poetry,  
Freed from the pressure of its Indigence.   

III.  
Raise then your Voices, and his Praise declare,  
Thus to the World you will your Verse endear,  
And ravish every listening Ear.  
Tell of his Noble Aspect, graceful Mein,  
In which beholders took a strange content,  
Fitted to hold the glorious Things within,  
And what it did contain, to represent.  
There Wit and Sense were in abundance found;  
But least, as Waters that their Banks overflow,  
These streams should shallow by dilation grow,  
A solid Judgement did their courses bound,  
Which still preserved their Depth and Current too,  
And made their Silence as themselves, profound;  
Not noisy with impertinence,  
The certain mark of a low Ebb of Sense.   

IV.  
Nor did his Courage to his Wit give place;  
As great, and yet as quiet too it was;  
Free from all offers of offence,  
Concealed within his Breast it lay,  
As Seeds of Fire hid in their Parent Stone,  
Nor easily would it be tempted thence,  
Till urged by Provocation,  
The angry Sparks forced thence their burning way,  
And made his real Bravery known,  
That could resent a wrong as well as ofter none.  
But if his Country, dear as Life or Fame,  
Bid him unsheathe his Sword in its defence,  
His Blood was quickly in a flame,  
And in each Vein beat brisk alarms,  
To call her great Defender out to Arms;  
Such for her weakness was his shame,  
Such of her Sufferings was his tender Sense.   

V.  
Hibernia, that unhappy Land  
That boasts her wholesome Soil no Venom breeds,  
Yet never wants Rebellion's poisonous Seeds,  
Her Empress Albion durst withstand,  
And strove to wrest the Sceptre from her Hand;  
Who then so fit in Albion's Cause to Fight,  
As he who did in Albion's Peace delight:  
And was the great Asserter of her Right?  
Tolmach is sent her Vassals to reduce;  
Tolmach the Brave, who could not brook to see  
An Arbitrary Power her Laws abuse,  
And cramp her Native Liberty:  
Him she desires, him she's obliged to choose;  
Nor could she find, in her Heroic Store,  
One that would study her Advantage more,  
Or in her Cause be more of Life profuse.   

VI  
Athlone, by Art and Nature Fortified,  
Put a strange Nonplus to the English Arms,  
Their Courage baffled, and their strength defied,  
Doubly secured from Harms,  
Till Tolmach found away they did not dread,  
(Since such a dangerous Enterprise  
No Courage durst attempt, no Thought design, but his)  
A way as unsuspected as unknown,  
At once to gain their River and their Town;  
Followed by Numbers of admiring Friends  
(Who would not follow where he led?)  
Into the Shannon boldly he descends,  
As Caesar once into the Rubicon;  
Th'affrighted River from him fled,  
Quit its Post, and did to Lym'rick haste,  
(The Rebel's strongest Refuge and their last,)  
Nor thought its Stream had now sufficient speed,  
While to th' astonished Town he safely passed,  
And on the conquered Walls his flying Ensigns placed.  
Thus daring Minds no difficulty know,  
The Courage that in great Attempts they show,  
Enables them to conquer what it leads them to.  
Soon Wars loud Tumults in Hibernia cease,  
Subjected to her Sovereign's Power:  
Pleased with the Blessings of his gentle Reign,  
The Golden Plenty, and the Downy Peace,  
Which, as his happy Conquest did restore,  
His more triumphant goodness does increase;  
And now she tunes her silver Lyre again,  
To Sing her Liberty regained,  
Which, if unconquered, she had ne'er obtained,  
Since she no longer business does afford,  
To exercise our Hero's Sword,  
He hastens to the Belgic shore,  
That does his strong successful Arm implore,  
To free it from th' encroaching gallic Power,  
Which with the Title of Most Christian dressed,  
Does Christendom worse than the Turk infest.   

VIII.  
But to suppress this powerful Foe,  
And wound him deeper with a nearer blow,  
The British Navy is for France designed,  
France must again that dreaded Courage know,  
That Courage that had often brought her low;  
And whom could Albion, but her Tolmach, find  
That with more Vigour would her Army's head,  
Or one by whom they would be rather led?  
Whose dreaded name, like Talbot's heretofore,  
Would through those Fields her Fame more largely spread,  
And fright French Children, but their Fathers more?  
The English Bravery in France well known  
And owned peculiarly Ours,  
Which last inglorious Age outlived,  
And long lay buried with our Ancestors▪  
In Tolmach was revived,  
And we th' Original must own  
Amended and Enlarged in this Edition.   

IX.  
But, Oh! what Power, envious at Albion's joy,  
Blasts her with a malignant breath,  
And does her gaudy blooming Hopes destroy!  
Scarce had he touched th' inhospitable Shore,  
Which all around for fear began to roar;  
When from th' Encounter of a fiery Storm  
A swift, tho' heavy Messenger of Death  
Too well its hateful Errand did perform  
And forcing a remoter part  
Made way for Fate too soon to reach his heart,  
And boldly tell him he must be no more.  
When this th' advancing Soldiers knew,  
Cold as he their Courage grew,  
France had no way but this to shock them so:  
Their General's Life is all their care,  
Which to preserve they hastily retreat,  
The Fate of France and their Revenge defer,  
To wait on a concern more near and great.   

X.  
Back to his Native soil conveyed,  
His drooping Head he on her Bosom laid,  
And in her Service wasted, yet untired,  
As fearless as he lived, expired,  
And for the Breath she gave too largely paid.  
France by his Death already grown too proud,  
Wanted the honour of his grave,  
This privilege injurious Fate allowed  
To be for Albion reserved,  
Whom as his Life he loved, whom with his Life he served:  
Nor could she next his Life, a greater blessing crave  
Than to preserve him, Dead, who her, alive did save.   

XI.  
See Albion, see thy General brought home,  
Not crowned with Conquest, as he used to come,  
But by Inconstant Fate betrayed,  
Himself a bleeding Victim made;  
Ah then dissolve into a briny Flood,  
And let it flow in Consort with his Blood.  
But, Oh! The precious Balm is shed in vain,  
No Virtue is in that or Physic found  
To keep out death, and heal the gaping wound:  
That Sluice does Life's whole treasure drain.  
Not all thy Sighs can him with Breath supply,  
Not all thy Prayers his fleeting Soul recall,  
But in thy Arms thy Champion must die,  
Pleasing himself with what thou dost lament,  
The loss of Life in thy loved Service spent,  
And only deems the Sacrifice too small.  
Since then for thee, the generous Tolmach dies,  
To his great Memory just Trophies raise,  
For which he Death may prise!  
That his pleased Soul from its exalted Seat  
May triumph in his Fate,  
So well deserving, and so full of praise.  
While in a peaceful Grave his Body lies,  
The Guardian Relic of our Isle  
Berkeley in France performs his Obsequies,  
And makes whole flaming Towns become his Funeral Pile.   
FINIS.