AN ELEGY On that Famous SEA-COMMANDER Michael De Ruyter, Lieutenant Admiral of the United Netherlands, etc. Who lately Died of his Wounds, Received in the Engagement between the Dutch and French Fleets near SICILY.  

Praise is a Tribute each true Poet owes,  
To Worth and Valour wheresoever it grows.  
Mountains and Seas may bond the Rule of Kings,  
But our Free Muse, with unconfined wings  
Flies over both, those that Allegiance yield  
To different States, are all her Subjects styled.  
And though a Soul breathes not within our Isle,  
That can more dearly Love its Native soil.  
Yet when I look abroad, wherever I Ken,  
The Good and Brave, they are my Countrymen.  
And shall De Ruyter Limp into a Grave  
Without a Mourning Verse? No Poem have  
T'Embalm his Fame, and let next Ages know,  
How much they to his Great Example owe?  
'Twere Moral Sacrilege, Nor can it be,  
His generous Acts command an Elegy;  
Say but De Ruyter's Dead, The news transforms  
Neptune's calm Face into a thousand Storms:  
The sighing Winds his rigid Fate deplore,  
And murmur his Loned Name to every shore,  
which soon as heard, Seamen (though Enemies)  
Cannot restrain the Torrents of their Eyes;  
Even those that never wept before, strike Sail  
To grief, and now the mighty Loss bewail;  
His Loss! whose able Parts had many a year,  
Been the Best Card by which Sailors could Steer;  
Who solely by his ample Merits call,  
Attained the Honour of an Admiral.  
Who had so often Thetis bosom lain,  
So long been used to Trace the Pathless Main;  
That Sea-nymphs welcomed him where ere he came,  
And every Dolphin knew him by his Name;  
His Services were numerously Great,  
The Second Atlas of a mighty State;  
Prudent in Counsels, and yet bold in War,  
To meet those dangers he fore saw a far:  
A well-poized Valour, that would never shrink,  
Neither beholden unto Oaths nor Drink;  
who in the height of Fight, and depth of slaughter  
(when all the world seemed only Fire and Water:  
And with a horrid Prospect gaping lay,  
As if the Deluge, and the Latter day  
Had met, and mingled Forces to devour  
The watery Warriors in one bloody hour)  
Could fearless stand, and calm commands dispense  
With present mind, and undisturbed sense:  
His Conduct for his courage did not cease,  
But with the Fury of the Fight Increase.  
What pity 'tis those Valiant Hero's, who  
Can do such Acts, are not Immortal too  
To live as his Eternal Fame must do.  
Must do! whilst there shall last what men call days  
Or Air to mould one syllable of Praise.  
So many fierce Engagements he had felt,  
Regarding Broadsides but as Potgun Pelt.  
We thought him woundless, till death made him Reel  
Achilles' like, by nibbling at his Heel;  
But as the Sun most glorious does appear,  
And darts the brightest rays when's settings near.  
So his last Scene of Life contracted all,  
That we can great, or brave, and wondrous call.  
For in his Country's Cause, he nobly Fell,  
whilst Peals of Cannon Rung his Parsing Bell  
And Victory attended on his Knell.  
Thus Died he as much Honoured as he Lived,  
For whom the netherlands are all so grieved.  
That they vie Lamentations without Pause,  
In a Vast Grief, next nothing but its Cause;  
A Grief! whose Sighs commanded by their love  
Might line with Sables all the Orbs above.  
And People Mourn so fast, That Holland fears '  
A Second Inundation from their Tears.    

The EPITAPH.  

The Great De Ruyter bred in Neptune's Court,  
Through many Storms has here attained his Port.  
A Grave-Stone is too small to hold his worth,  
Posterity (if Just) must set it forth  
what his Deeds were, and Conduct who not knows  
Our Verse, Refers him to the Belgic Prose.  
which like Fame, flutters round this Tomb, & says  
They'll diet all their Children with his Praise.   
FINIS.   

London, Printed for William Whitwood, 1676.  
With Allowance.