AN elegy Upon the Never Satisfactorily deplored Death of that Rare Column of Parnassus, MR. John CLEEVELAND.  

IS CLEEVELAND Dead? and not one weeping Pen  
Vote him in Text The Miracle of Men?  
Can the great Monarch of the two-topped Hill  
Visit the Shades? whose Star-encountring Quill  
Had He but darted at insulting Death,  
That pale-faced Tyrant had resigned his Breath,  
Tribute to Lycambes Collar. Resist  
His lightest Lash, Take him as satirist  
No Mortal can. Snaky Medusa's Head  
With one prick of his Neb he could strike dead;  
His sublimated Style most justly mocks  
A Muse that can't let-Blood the craggy Rocks.  
And can his Laurel wither? Alas! He  
As his own Demesn hath eternity.  
Great CLEEVELAND scorns the Grave, and cannot Die,  
Before an Exhalation to the sky  
Gives fire with's flaming Beard, and shall presage  
Some viperous Curse to cauterise this Age:  
How then presumes this abhorred scrietch-owl Fame  
To intrude Θ into CLEEVELAND's Name?  
He to whom Poets must in Homage fall,  
And beg from●s Verse their Senses festival.  
But ah! Fame's tipped with Truth, his soaring soul,  
That was both Arctic and Antarctick Pole  
To poesy; has filed off Her Clay,  
And eagle-winged dissects the Milky way;  
And with undazled Eyes ascends as far  
As the Eight Sphere, where She the Sixteenth Star  
Makes of the first Magnitude. And conjoint  
With her Associates, lends this Terrene Point  
A Loving Glance: whilst we with drowned Eyes  
Deplore our Earth, Envy the now blessed skies.   

Stupid Astronomers! whose senseless Brain  
The Middle Region is of Snow, Hail, Rain;  
Did ye not by consent avow, This there,  
No Black Eclipse should Mask our Hemisphere?  
And yet with Despair see how grays-inn Sun  
Twelve Digits is eclipsed, Muffled, o'errun.  
Resume your Jacobs-Staffs, and with them take  
The Altitude of Truth, your gross mistake  
Cancel, with a Prediction far more True  
Than Priam's chastest Daughter ever knew.   

Till the vast fabric of the World shall Burn  
Without Repair, and become its own Urn,  
Boldly assert, Men wisely may despair,  
To see a Muse Merit the Curule Chair  
So much as CLEEVELAND's. How? Nay, for to see  
One that might make an Halting Simile.   

Foretell the world that there shall shortly be  
Of Elements but a triplicity.  
The Muses swear by Styx, Their showering Eyes  
Shall offer up the Earth a Sacrifice  
To Neptune's Trident. This not spurs our Fears,  
Who are all ready pickled up in Tears.  
Apollo turns Close-Mourner, Burns his bays;  
And nothing fly, but Melancholy brays  
From Pegasus Horse Throat. Fount Caballine  
For Sand hath Salt, the water being Brine.   

The Phoenix robs the wardrobe of the East  
(When extreme Age indigitates Her Nest,)  
Of the most fragrant Spices: And dares die,  
Without a Cheer-up from a slander by.  
The Sun's Executor; and lets Her have,  
As 'tis Her will, a Cradle, and a Grave.  
Her Daughter crawls out first: Then learns to fly,  
Probatum est: the Way to live's, to die.   

Could a much flattered Hope, create Belief,  
Albion's rare Phoenix should Revive; our Grief  
Should end in Paeans: And thy Altars round  
A Thousand Hecatombs with Garlands crowned,  
(Great Jove) should Low, whilst Wits in greatfull Crowds,  
With Acclamations shall unrip the Clouds.  
Alas! we cannot Beg His Life, of Fate,  
Were sweet Cyllenius our Advocate:  
Not though in Thunder, Jove commands Reprieve,  
To see the Light will Minos give Him leave;  
And yet although 'tis frivolous to crave  
An Habeas Corpus from the Hated Grave;  
Yet shall the Pallas of Thy laureate Head,  
Of Carian Mausolaeum stand in stead.  
Thy Brain has had immortal Issue, which,  
Till earth's Grand Calcination, shall Enrich  
Thy Name with Radiant Glory. We no Muse  
Will invocate but Thine. Thee we will choose  
Our Patron, Our Apollo. He who Climbs,  
Reason t' embroider with high Vaulting Rhymes,  
That scorns His nurse's Words; And counts it cheap  
To o're-top Saturn at one fiery Leap;  
Whose Pleasure makes Vulcan's tried anvil yield;  
Can force Archilochus to run the Field;  
Whom Cato calls, the Glory of His Age;  
And hath men's Admiration as his Page:  
Such, Such a soul, may Vaunt himself to be  
A Dim Resemblance of Thy Muse and Thee.   

Adieu Dear Sir! We Mortals will prove Just,  
Always adoring Your most sacred Dust.  
The Earth on You lay light: whilst heavy Hearts  
In Sighs and Throbs shall act our tragic Parts.  
Ever sit Thou enthroned i'th' people's Vogue,  
Thy fever being named Wits Epilogue.   

EPITAPHIUM.  

IActare fas est, dives, O dives Marmor!  
AErarium Magni cineris es CLEEVELANDI.  
Sub te Sepultus, qui potis mori Non est.  
Virgilius Hic est Anglicus: Tullius Hic est.  
Ad alta semper cum sua tetendit Musa,  
Altissimam ambit nunc Poesin: In Coelo,  
Indesinenter cantitans Hallelujah.  
Dum Naenias celebramus atras stillante  
Oculo, Viator! sis Tui memor Busti:  
Elugeas Catastrophen Hanc Parnassi.   
T. P. Gen. Norfolciensis.  VIATOR ILICET.   

London, Printed by W. Godbid, for Henry Marsh at the Prince's Arms at the Lower end of Chancery Lane, near the Inner Temple Gate in Fleetstreet, 1658.