AN HEROIC ELEGY Upon the most Lamented Death of that Excellent Hero Sir Edmund Wyndham, Knight Marshal of ENGLAND.  
A Wake ye dead, ye glorious Heavenly Host,  
And bid your Welcomes to a new come Ghost.  
A Ghost of Honour, Robbed with Christian Grace,  
Who now hath fought his Fight, and gained his Race;  
Who hath passed bravely o'er this World's great Stage,  
Adorned with Crowns of Honour and of Age.  
He was a man of most accomplished Parts,  
The learned Master both of Arms, and Arts.  
Doubly Palladian so he doth poffess  
The Crown of Glory and of Righteousness.  
Nay, what to mortal more be added can?  
He was a most unblemished honest man.  
Who amongst you can boast a greater thing,  
Than t'have been nursing Father to a King.  
And such a King who studies still to bless  
These Kingdoms with a lasting Happiness.  
Nay, in the fiercest heats of Wars Alarms  
Did carry him in's heart, as well as Arms.  
So that His Majesty's most Royal Sense  
Placed Marshals Staff, where he might's Conscience.  
For his Endeavours always were to bring  
Great Glories to his Gracious God, and King.  
Farewell good Windham then, whose virtuous Soul  
Did all Rebellious Vermin here control:  
Who beat long Serpents out of their round Beds,  
And broke the many headed Hydra's Heads.  
He was the Glory both of Sword and Gown,  
And known Supporter of the Royal Crown;  
Which he appeared to be in th'worst of Times,  
When all this Land was laden with foul Crimes;  
When all Religion too was banished hence,  
And Treason passed for good Convenience:  
When horrid Rebels kept their King in Awe,  
And Civil Arms were cried up Common Law.  
When all these Kingdoms were in mischief hurled,  
He stood unmoved, th' Eighth Wonder of the World:  
Fixed like that Empiraeum, nor did know  
Or care for Tumults of these Orbs below.  
These Orbs below, I mean which still go round,  
And ne'er are quiet till they do confound.  
When base Rebellion was pure Virtue made,  
And ourst High-Treason was become a Trade;  
He like another Archimed did bring  
Engines to work, to Reinthrone his King.  
Those Engines sure were Angels, that he sent  
To help his oppressed Prince in's Banishment.  
When all was out of help, nay hopes of man,  
He then advanced his Angel's Guardian.  
He never feared Rogues Pillage, nor spared Purse  
That he might clear his Country from that Curse  
Which when His Majesty well understood,  
He'd have him like himself, so great, as good.  
Nor could his gracious goodness make a shift,  
To give this Land a more Basilick Gift,  
Nay, sure his Royal Favour could afford  
No greater Honour, than his Marshal's Sword:  
And who could better manage it than he,  
Whose Soul was the rich Sheath of Loyalty.  
Who can but humbly prostrate, now adore,  
So brisk a Soul, in body 'bove Fourscore;  
Yet he must yield at last to cruel Death,  
But for a Pause to gain immortal Breath.  
Where he doth now his Io Paeans sing  
For his good King on Earth, to Heaven's great King.  
More Comfort is, that he hath left behind,  
Such Noble Sons, th' high Offspring of his Mind;  
That you can't choose but hope that we shall see  
These Kingdoms blessed in their Posterity.  
Let Hackney Poets now make haste, and run  
To court the Glories of the Rising Sun;  
Whilst honoured Windom's Coarse, more like the Sun  
Shines forth most glorious at his going down.  
And so he meets in that most pompous Dress,  
In th' other world, the Son of Righteousness.   

London, Printed An, Dom. 1680/1.