An Elegy upon the most lamented death of the Right Honourable and truly valiant, ROBERT Earl of Essex, etc.  

I Thank thee, Grief, that thou hast found a voice:  
Some think there runs no stream, where's heard no noise;  
And yet I'll bear thee witness, when there stood  
No water in thine Eye, thy Heart wept Blood;   

So may the stealing Brook mourn under ground,  
When on the surface, nought but Flint is found.   

Advance my Tears then, and your Office be  
To bring the Rear up of this Obsequy.   

A Rear of Mourners, which shall reach from hence  
To Doomsday, mourning not for Form, but Sense.  
We now but see the Pomp; but after times  
Shall make us feel our Loss, due to our-Crimes;  
When Monarchy shall-faint, and Faction thrive,  
How shall we then wish Devereux alive?  
When there is none to dry up Widow's Tears;  
None to Repulse our Jealousies and Fears:  
When Justice self shall want an Advocate,  
And truth in coward silence read her Fate;  
When those days come, (O never come those Days;  
Never to us!) that he shall wear the Bays,  
And be accounted valiant, who shall dare  
To whisper Truth, though only to the Air:  
When the mean Feet shall trample over the Head;  
How shall we then feel Devereux is dead?  
Devereux, the Nobles Orb, the Gentry's Star,  
The City's Altar, the wronged Country's Bar:  
Devereux, the Just, Devereux, the Stout, the Wise,  
The maimed Soldiers Limbs, the Blind man's Eyes.  
The Armies faithful Alm'ner; or what's more  
Devereux, the very Devereux of their Poor;   

Yet he, this Cedar's fallen: or rather, is  
Transplanted, for to grow in Paradise.   

How the Ghosts throng to see their great new Guest;  
Talbot, Vere, Norris, Williams, and the rest,  
Those valiant Shades, England's best Sons! each one  
Courting Him to then Bowers; (Bowers, whereof none  
But was of conquering Laurel) there to hear  
A story, which would force from Ghosts a Tear.  
(Their Mother's Tragedy) as 'twas acted late  
By her own Children, to make sport for Fate;   

For they had seen the Stygian Boats even sink,  
Laden with Souls up to the very brink;  
Had known their Charon tug and sweat, and say;  
England did find him most work and best pay.   

He (the new Guest) who (since he did afford  
To hold in peace the Scales, in War the Sword,  
Can therefore give best Judgement: the pure stamp  
How things'ith Senate passed, how in the Camp:)  
Dissects the Body politic, and with weight  
Lays open the Griefs and Maladies of State.   

Shows how those hands that held the Scales were numb,  
And how that Tongue which should preach Peace was dumb;  
The Feet (saith He) went staggering, and 'tis said,  
Some Clouds and Vapours did possess the Head,  
Whose little singer, had the poison moved,  
Heavier than all his Father's Loins had proved;  
The Eyes grew dim and darkish, whiles the Ear  
Deaf to sage Counsel, yet strange Tales could hear;  
And the whole Frame did so with Fever burn,  
Fever might serve for Piles to fill the Urn;  
And England mouldering thus through Feverish Ire,  
Save Heaven the labour of a Doomsday Fire.  
All now was turning into Ashes: so  
Consuming Flames Incendiaries blow.   

Hence England's best Physicians judged it need  
(To save the Body) that some veins should bleed;  
Surgeons from all parts come to work the Cure  
(She now was patiented and must all endure.)  
Leeches and empirics (College fulls) all came,  
To cure? no, but to practise on their Dame.  
And thus they let her bleed too much: so they  
Can gain, no matter though she bloodless lay.   

Yet some there came, Artists, and honest too;  
Men that without a plot their work would do:  
Men, that to stop her blood, their own did give,  
And paid their Deathless Lives to make her live.  
So sharp a Pill is War, that some have thought.  
Even Health itself, at this price, too dear bought;  
Physic on a Sword's point can seldom please,  
Men count such Remedies worse than the Disease.   

And thus as he was blazning States, and Men,  
Persons, and Things, the Cause; why? how? and when?  
Still passing o'er Himself, as if he were,  
Though others Trumpet, His own Silencer:  
Still his own Mute, whilst yet he Trumpets forth  
Great Warwick's, and Northumberlands great Worth.  
With other Heroes placed in high Command,  
Neptune's at Sea, and Marses on the Land;   

But who was He, cried some, (not but they knew:  
But that they longed to hear those gests anew  
Which they so dearly loved) who's he that fought  
So much for Peace 'bove Victory? that thought  
The bloodless Bays the best? He that aimed more  
To save one Citizen, then kill many a Foe?  
He that knew how to value Lives? the Man,  
So much good Soldier, and good Christian;  
That killed and sighed, mourned as he Trophies wore,  
Mingling his own Tears with his Enemy's gore?  
As if his Grand Commission did not give  
Him power to kill and slay, but kill and grieve.   

And yet again, that most undaunted He,  
(When th'Armies were to join, to disagree)  
Who speeched his Soldiers first with Voice and Drum,  
Then Caesar-like bade them, not go, but come?  
He, who Himself an Army was alone!  
He, who was then most General, when yet none?  
And had whole Legions ever at his need,  
Legions of Soldiers not to Fight, but Feed:   

Yea but who's He, cried one among the throng.  
That with so few men raised a Siege so strong?  
That made Retreat from twice his odds, the while,  
As he Retreated, fight, threescore mile?  
And this, not through fenced Lanes, and in thick nights,  
The Downs and Midday Sun saw all his fights.  
An honour, we could envy, could this place  
(Love's Throne) admit a wrinkled Heart or Face.   

With that, some Cavalier Ghosts (for there come  
Of them to rest here in Elysium)  
The Learned Faulkland, and Carnarvan stout,  
Fierce Lindsey, (Spartan shades, above the Rout;)  
Such as had paid him Homage with their Blood,  
And fallen his Sacrifices, when he stood  
Pointed at our dear loss, and said; all this,  
And more is Devereux; this, and more is His;  
Which made him blush; His pale Ghost blushed; and then  
He looked, as if he had been alive again.   

But when such praises even from Enemies come,  
It were a sin in us, should we stand dumb?   

And is't not pity so Famed worth should die  
Without an Heir? No Son to close his Eye?  
No Child to wear his virtue with his Name?  
None to inherit his well-gotten Fame?  
But as great ' Paminondas answered those  
His Friends, that mourned his Fall, (mourned by his Foes)  
'Cause he fell Childless; as if Greece were done  
Since so much virtue died without a Son:  
But yet (saith He) still bear it in your mind,  
I've left two Daughters with you here behind,  
Leuctra and Mantinaea; who shall keep  
Their Father's Name from Death, and Thebes from sleep;  
So when our Devereux, (Devereux, a word  
Great as that Greek's, and keener than his Sword:  
A Name that fills the Mouth, and wounds the Ear:  
A Name that Machiavelli would be pleased to hear.  
He, who admires the Pagans large-sized Name  
'Bove Christians; as if words could create Fame.)  
So when our Devereux is bemoaned in Death,  
As one that leaves no Son to breathe his Breath,  
Answer is made, He leaves two Daughters fair,  
Reading and Gloucester, Daughters such as are  
Sans parallel; and which will cost the State  
Millions to match them with an equal Mate.  
Or should this Issue fail, yet how can He  
Want Sons and Heirs, who's Pater Patriae.   
C. G.  
FINIS.