On The Death of the late Duke of Ormond

UNder a fatal Yew, as I was laid,
Pleas'd with the dismal melancholick Shade,
Democritus in a black Veil appears,
Democritus his Ghost in flouds of Tears.
Horrour my Senses in confusion seal'd,
The icy current of my Bloud congeal'd.
Each Joynt and Sinew loos'd: my swelling Veins
Were cold and stiff, bound on the Rack of Pains.
Smother'd in silence thus I panting lay,
And heard the hollow Specter sighing say,
He's gone—the Pillar of the Church and State
With honour sinks under the mighty weight;
The British Atlas falls a Sacrifice to insulting Fate.
Who would not ev'n the Laws of Nature break?
And be a Polyzaelus for his sake?
Democritus, the lightest Mould of Earth,
Whose Life was one continu'd Scene of Mirth,
A Deluge of religious Tears must shed,
To wash the Hero; for a Hero's dead.
Fame! thou chief Attribute of his great Soul!
Proclaim the doleful News from Pole to Pole:
Employ thy hundred Tongues, that all may come,
And pay their last Devotion to his Tomb.
Here at this Agelastos sigh and groan,
Till Niobe's fate more justly be their own.
Let Nature her unhappy loss bewail,
And hide her head under a Widow's Veil:
Or like Evadne, with her Husband burn,
As he to Ashes, she to Chaos turn.
The Sun and Moon eclips'd!—where am I now?
Stars clashing fall!—the sinking Heavens bow!
The Sun and Moon would Ormond both embrace!
The Sun and Moon would both resign their place:
The Constellations all together croud,
And hide themselves behind a bashful Cloud!
The Signs contracted, shrink to make him room!
Concern'd where Ormond will vouchsafe to come!
Each for the honour of his presence vy!
Yet blush Ormond should have no Rival in the Sky!
Hah! what strange Light is this that strikes my Eyes,
And from those Mists of Darkness seems to rise!
—What blazing Comet's that I see
Newly install'd chief in the Galaxy!
Perseus and Cassiopeia round him twine,
To blind his Lustre, both their Forces joyn;
But he does all the heavenly Host out-shine!
'Tis Ormond, by that Spotless Robe of white!
Nor could another Sign be half so bright!
'Tis He—insert him in your Kalendar,
A worthy Saint, and an auspicious Star.
Thou World, alternately rejoyce and mourn,
But rather drop more Tears into his Urn:
Whilst I to my own self and to my place return.