AN ELEGY.  
Sacred to the Memory OF THE Highborn Prince Henry D. of Grafton, WHO Died of his WOUNDS at Cork, October 9th. 1690.  
In Pindaric Verse.  
By Franc. Hext.  Hom. Iliad. 
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〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  
LONDON, Printed by T. M. and are to be Sold by Randal Tailor near Stationers-Hall, 1690.   

AN ELEGY. Sacred to the Memory OF THE Highborn Prince Henry D. of Grafton, etc.  

Stanza I.  
BEgone, ye numerous Sons of Ptolemy,  
Who would th' Effects of Planets know,  
And all the Secrets, which do flow  
From the Dark Source of deep Astrology:  
We now do find by woeful Consequence,  
Ye're but Pretenders to that mighty Art;  
Since none to us could our Great Loss impart,  
By some Malignant Stars cursed Influence  
Blush to Confusion, since ye ne'er could foresee  
That our Great Duke before Corks Fatal Walls,  
By eager Honour, and Fates Envy drawn,  
Should to th' Eternal Irish Jubilee  
A Sacrifice too precious Fall:  
This had ye shown,  
We ' had kept him tho' unwilling far,  
From Wat'ry Ireland's Ruthful Shoar,  
And so had baffled Fate, and his Tyrannic Destiny.   

II.  
Then our Mean Praise can no Addition bring  
To thy true Bullion worth,  
But rather Cloud, than Blazon forth  
Those Wonders, which thy Royal Hand has done:  
Yet 'tis our Duty, now to Moan,  
And with Respectful Awe to come  
With our officious, tho' unnecessary Epicedium.  
Early thy budding Parts were shown  
When thou to Portugal was sent  
T' Adorn the Nuptials of that King;  
A Select Cohort with Thee went  
Your Entrance to Renown, and make your Grandeur known,  
At the First View confounded stood  
The Royal Portugueze to see  
A Mor●●l so much imitate a GOD.  
In haste retired, himself to free  
From the bright Rays of Your too dazzling Majesty.   

III.  
To Malta next his Course he bent,  
And whilst the Grafton cut the Azure Waves,  
All the Crowd of Pirate Slaves  
Scudded in haste t' avoid their certain Fate.  
Those Christian-Knights of th' Order went  
For to Congratulate  
His safe Arrival on their Shoar.  
He t' Oblige them, Exercised his Men  
With such a Warlike, Haughty Mein,  
That they astonished stood to see our Discipline,  
They had before  
In their Italian Authors read  
What our Great Forefathers did.  
But they supposed when they did die,  
Our Conquests with them hence did fly.  
But this Great Action did retrieve  
Our ruin'd Credit from the Grave,  
And made us seem Superior to the Mighty Dead.   

iv  
When Poteus Politicians joined with Rome,  
Contrived the Downfall of our Church and Laws;  
Then fired with Zeal for such a Cause,  
Did he his Warlike Garb assume  
As th' Hercules that Hydra to destroy,  
Who with her Fangs our Faith endeavoured to Annoy.  
This they foresaw, and sent an Irish Slave,  
First Born of Hell, t' Assassinate our Prince,  
But Heavens kind Influence  
Did him from that Contingent Danger save,  
And sent that Villain headlong to the Grave.  
When the French Fleet did swagger in our Sea,  
He boldly ventured 'mongst the Enemy,  
Whilst others Fought too nigh the Shoar  
He grappled with them close, and was himself the War.   

V  
As Marcus Brutus musing sat  
In his Pavilion, on the War,  
A dreadful Figure did appear,  
Which was the Nuntius of his coming Fate,  
He told him on Philippi's Plain  
He should behold his Form again,  
But he did Dare the Malice of the Fiend  
Out of the Tent did the Pale Shadow send  
By his Contracted Brow, and his Imperial Mein.  
But too well to the Destined Place he came,  
And led by Arbitrary Power the Roman to Elysium.  
So when our Duke, a Royal Volunteer,  
Before Corks Walls resolved to be,  
The King of Terrors did appear,  
And with him brought all his Artillery,  
Bombs, Hand-Granadoes, Culverins, Canons, all  
The Murdering Ministers of Horrid War.  
Then pointed to the Place, where he should Fall,  
And where to him a Visit he would pay,  
He with a Look Elate, did fright Grim Death away,  
Whilst others on their supple Knees  
Fired their Charged Muskets from afar.  
He stood erect, defying Death, and his Weak Enemies.  
Death took the Hint, secured him as his Prize,  
But he long strove, before he proved the Conqueror.   

VI  
It is the Practice of too Partial Fate,  
Immoderate Virtue for to hate,  
By long Experience she does find,  
To Lop a Hero, is to Massacre Mankind.  
The Mobile-Souls, whom Nature framed in vain,  
Or only to fill up her Train,  
Live till Decrepit Age does come,  
And carry them to their long Home.  
But the Wise and truly Good,  
And those, that spring from Royal Blood  
Like early Flowers, are niped in th' Bud.  
We could of Vulgar Men great Numbers spare,  
Who Slaves are to that Servile Passion, Fear.  
With these we'had gorged your Ravenous Maw  
As Numberless, as Curls upon the Sea,  
Or as when o'er the Lake impending lay  
The scattered Seraphim, who dared to disobey  
Their Great Creator, and their Confusion downward draw.   

VII.  
For Britain's Glorious Sons of War make Room,  
Who Pikes and shivered Lances bring,  
Who shattered Colours, Types of Victory  
Dear-bought from no Inglorious Enemy,  
And as a pleasing Offering  
To their Great Hector's Name, do fix them to his Tomb.  
You of the Female Sex, that are  
Most Noble, Virtuous, and most Fair,  
(For he was Beauteous, as a Fancied God)  
With flowing Eyes draw near,  
T' assist the Pious Duchess, whose great Load  
Of Grief ineffable, Her Beauty's Cloud.  
Can Weeping Eyes, or falling Tears,  
Or a Continual Form of Prayers,  
From the Dark Grave our Hero free,  
And once more Cloth Him with Mortality;  
Her Grace so well does Heaven move  
For Her Dearest, Royal Love,  
With Her moist Tears, and never-ceasing Cries,  
That (if 'twere possible) He would forsake his Native Skies.   
FINIS.