DAY weareth day, hour consumes hour,
Years years, and age doth age devour;
The man who now beholds the sun,
Ere it decline his life is done.
So by this great Lord doth appear,
Whose honoured bones lie buried here;
Whose bones though they interred lie,
His glorious name will never die :
But live in praise,
To after days.
HERE lies he dead, who living liv'd in fame, Consumed in body, fresh reviv'd in name; His worthy deeds exceeded term of date, Alike his praise will never stoop to fate.
For who is he that can suppose, That stones great DEVONSHIRE could enclose? Whose noble acts renowned were,
While as he lived every where !
England rejoiced in his valour's due,
Which Ireland felt, and feeling did it rue;
But now by destiny here sleeps he dead,
Whileas his glory through the world is spread.
Urging the great in emulation,
Of his true honour's commendation.
No one exceeds in all, yet amongst many,
Yea amongst all he could do more than any;
Though more than mortal virtue graced his mind,
He was unto a mortal end confined:
And forced to yield unto death's force,
Who in his shaft hath no remorse :
Princes, beggars, great and small,
He spareth none, he killeth all.
So did he rob high DEVONSHIRE of his breath,
Whose worth in spite of death will outlive death:
Advantage such his merit doth retain,
He in his name will live renew'd again.
And so though death his life deprive,
His life in death will new revive.
of Death's respectless dart,
Great DEVONSHIRE'S Soul
did from his body part;
And left his carcass in this earthly slime,
While his fame's essence to the skies did climb;
Roving abroad, to fill the latter days
With wonder of his JUST, deserved praise:
So that each AGE will in the time to come,
Admire his worthiness, and mourn his TOMB:
Which they shall ever count a shrine,
Of some deceased saint divine.
Lo, here I rest, who living
was adored
with all the honour
Love could have implored:
What earthly pomp might beautify my name, In pride of glory I enjoyed the same : A champion ever ready to defend her, A senator press'd always to commend her : Though with my heart's delight my life is graced, Yet I in peace of death was cross'd at last.
And now entombed here I lie,
A mirror in eternity.
O! WHATSOE'ER thou be that passest by,
Look on this hearse, and weep thy eyelids dry,
The monument of worth, the angel's pleasure,
Which hoardeth glory's rich, invalued treasure;
The relics of a saint, an earthly creature,
Clad in the perfect mould of angel feature;
Who lives even after life, now being dead,
Welcome to heaven, in earth canonized.
The shouts of fame,
Echo his name.
IN blessed peace and soul-united rest,
Here sleeps the carcass of a peer most blest,
Whose downfall all the plots of cursed fight
Could not procure, or terrify his might:
But evermore he tamed the pride of folly,
And castigated drifts of slaves unholy;
Yet death at last with force of vigour grim,
When he had conquer'd many, conquered him.
And here amongst the quiet numbers
Of happy souls, he sweetly slumbers.
THE boast of Britain, and the life of state,
The pith of valour, nobleness innate,
Foes' scourge, friends' hopes, sustainer of the poor,
Whom most men did embrace, all men adore.
Fautor of learning, quintessence of arts,
Honour's true livelihood, monarch of hearts,
The sacred offspring of a virtuous womb,
Lies here enshrined in this hallow'd tomb:
From out whose Phoenix dust ariseth
Renown, which earth's whole globe enticeth.
Lo, here Nine Tombs, on every tomb engrav'd
Nine Epitaphs, shewing that worthies nine
For each peculiar one a tomb hath crav'd;
That their deserts, who while he lived did shine,
Might now be monumented in their shrine:
Yet all those Nine no glory hence have gain'd,
For DEVONSHIRE in himself all nine contain'd.
The nine poor figures of a following substance,
Did but present an after-age's mirror:
Who should more fame than they deserv'd advance,
And manifest the truth of that time's error,
Including DEVONSHIRE, earth's admired terror;
For all the poets who have sung of them,
Have but in mystery adored him.
O, now drop eyeballs into sink of mud!
Be harsh the tunes of my unfeather'd muse!
Sorrow, suck up my griefs! consume the blood
Of my youth's mirth! let meagre death infuse
The soul of gladness to untimely news:
Dead is the height of glory, dead is all
The pride of earth which was angelical.
Ah, that the goddess whom in heart I serve,
Though never mine, bright Lycia the cruel,
The cruel subtile would the name deserve
Of lesser wise, and not abuse the jewel
Of wit, which adds unto my flame more fuel:
Her thoughts to elder merits are confined.
Not to the solace of my younger mind.
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