A Funeral TEAR, TO THE MEMORY OF THE HONOURABLE Capt. james Killigrew: WHO Unfortunately lost His Life in His MAJESTY's Service, in an Engagement with Two French Men of War, in the Mediterranean Sea; on the 27th. of January last, 1694/5.  
Immodicis Brevis est Aetas, & rara Senectus.  
By E. SETTLE.  
LONDON: Printed for R. Hayhurst, in Little-Britain, 1695.   

A Funeral Tear, etc.  

HOW strangely Nature does Her Treasures heap;  
Her Richest Gems, in Cabinets so Cheap!  
Her Sparks of Heaven to Walls of Earth disposed,  
And the Great Souls in Brittle Clay enclosed:  
All Riches have their Wings; even Courage dies;  
The Casket breaks, and vanishing Jewel flies:  
Weak-armoured Life! In Wars destroying Field,  
Neither the Champion, nor the Cause, can shield!   

In Her whole List, Britannia ne'er could boast  
More Hopeful WORTH, nor more Untimely lost;  
Not waked, like Sluggards, at their Noonday Sun;  
HONOUR His Active Morning Raze begun:  
Such YOUTH did never Manlier Virtue grace,  
The Soul of Mars, in an Endimion's Face!  
YOUTH, where those equal Charms all smiling grew,  
For Cynthia's Darling, and Bellona's too!   

Nor in His single Veins such COURAGE runs;  
Sprung from a Race, adopted Neptune's Sons;  
Cheer as Their Quarrel, when bold Danger calls,  
And Stout, as Their own Floating Castle Walls:  
His Brother's FLAG, with His own Streamers, joined;  
Hereditary Bravery! Comes of Kind!   

Methinks, I see His Single dauntless Hulk,  
Against His Two tall Foe's overtopping Bulk,  
Deal round Her Roaring Deaths, in Iron Ball;  
Unequal Combat, English VALOUR All:  
There wanted so much Odds His Fate to push,  
Whom less than Weight, and Numbers, ne'er could crush.   

But let not His Insulting Gallic Foes  
Too proudly boast this Young cropped English ROSE;  
That Vanity Their Sanguine Blushes tell:  
He died Their Lilies Crimson,  He fell.  
Nay, such true COURAGE fought, even beyond Death;  
His Thunder still survived, whilst His Last Breath  
Does to His Neptune-Successors inspire  
His own Great SOUL, that Transmigrating Fire,  
That to Their Arms Life, Spir'it, and Vengeance lends,  
The hover Genius His Own Conquest ends.   

Nor was this Scene of Albion Glory penned  
In Her own Wat'ry Walls, (Her Vassal Element;)  
The Tyrrhene Strand did at those Bolts rebound;  
Not Thames, but listening Tiber, heard the Sound:  
Nor Rome's alone, but Rome's old Rival Shoar;  
Her Carthage Africk-Coast, the Echo bore:  
Nay, even the Neighbouring Crescent must Proclaim  
The British Cross' envied Race of FAME:  
Such Distant HONOUR, her far Thunder hurled,  
To drive her Hunted Foes around the World.   

Thus his proud Fame, on Her most towering Wings,  
At once His Dirge, and Io Paean, sings;  
A Fate, that even in Death the Triumph bore:  
The great Gustavus Fall could do no more.   

But, oh! hard Fated Laurels! This Young Head  
So early lodged in Honour's Fatal Bed!  
But when in that sweet Bloom, such COURAGE dies,  
His Mourners are not only Martial Eyes;  
The God, and His own Anvil Cyclop-Crew,  
Their Tears to that Young Hand, so justly due:  
A Hand, that from Their own Great Forge could wield  
Their Massiest Bolts; their keenest Lightning held:  
But the whole Nine, each Muse, and every Grace,  
Must, at this Loss, bedew her Virgin Face.   

Yes, If the Humbler Muses feebler Sound,  
Is not in all Thy louder Tritons drowned;  
Their softest Harmony shall tune Thy Praise,  
And chant Thy Name in Her Immortal Lays.  
What tho' in Foreign Tombs Thy Ashes sleep,  
And distant Urns those Envied Relics keep;  
Yet still Thy Native Albion Soil alone,  
Shall claim thy Birth, a Glory all her Own.  
What more Thou leav'st behind, that larger Claim,  
Thy fair Example, and thy fragrant FAME,  
More than One single Nation shall supply;  
Let the whole World Divide Thy MEMORY.  
FINIS.