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DEATH, that by stealth did wound P. Henry's heart,*
Is now ta'en captive, and doth act the part
Of one o'ercome, by being too too fierce,
And lies himself dead under Henry's hearse :
He therefore now in heavenly tunes doth sing,
Hell! Where's thy triumph? Death! where is thy sting?
* The date of the prince's death was the 6th Nov. 1612. Hume speaks of him in the following terms: “This year the sudden death of Henry, Prince of Wales, diffused an universal grief throughout the nation. Though youth and royal birth, both of them strong allurements, prepossess men mightily in favour of the early
ages of princes, it is with peculiar fondness that historians mention Henry; and in every respect his merit seems to have been extraordinary. He had not reached his eighteenth year, and he already possessed more dignity in his behaviour, and commanded more respect, than his father, with all his age, learning, and experience. Neither his high fortune, nor his youth, had seduced him into any irregular pleasures : business and ambition seem to have been his sole passion. His inclinations as well as exercises were martial. The French Ambassador taking leave of him, and asking his commands for France, found him employed in the exercise of the pike: Tell your king, said he, in what occupation you left me engaged. He had conceived great esteem and attention for the brave Sir Walter Raleigh. It was his saying, Sure no king but my father would keep such a bird in a cage."
PRINCE HENRY's OBSEQUIES.
NOW that beloved Henry's glass is run,
And others' duties to his body shewn;
Now that his sad-sad Obsequies be done,
And public sorrow's well-nigh over-blown:
Now give me leave to leave all joys at one
For a dull melancholy loneliness;
To pine my self with a self-pining moan,
And fat my grief with solitariness.
For if it be a comfort in distress
(As some think) to have sharers in our woes,
Then my desire is to be comfortless,
(My soul in public grief no pleasure knows.)
Yea, I could wish, and for that wish would die,
That there were none had cause to grieve but I.
First for thy loss, poor world-divided Isle,
My eyes pay grief's drink-offering of tears :
And I set by all other thoughts awhile
To feed my mind the better on my cares.
I saw how happy thou wert but of late
In thy sweet Henry's hopes; yea, I saw too
How thou didst glory in thy blessed state;
Which thou indeed hadst cause enough to do.
For when I saw thee place all thy delight
Upon his worth; and then when thou didst place it,
(And thy Joy almost mounted to her height)
His hapless end so suddenly deface it;
Methought I felt it go so near my heart,
Mine ach'd too with a sympathizing smart.
For thee, Great James! my springs of sorrow run,
For thee my Muse a heavy song doth sing,
That hast lost more in losing of thy Son,
Than they that lose the title of a King.
Needs must the pains that do disturb the head
Disease the body throughout every part;
I therefore should have seem'd a member dead,
If I had had no feeling of this smart.
But oh! I grieve, and yet I grieve the less,
Thy Kingly gift so well prevail'd to make him
Fit for a Crown of endless happiness,
And that it was th' Almighty's hand did take him,
Who was himself a book for Kings to pore on,
And might have been thy BALIAIKON ANPON.
For our fair Queen my grief is no less moving,
There's none could e'er more justly boast of child;
For he was every way most nobly loving,
Most full of manly courage, and yet mild.
Methinks I see what heavy discontent
Beclouds her brow and over-shades her eyne;
Yea, I do feel her loving heart lament;
An earnest thought conveys the grief to mine.
I see she notes the sadness of the Court,
Thinks how that here, or there, she saw him last;
Remembers his sweet speech, his graceful sport,
And such like things to make her Passion last.
But what mean I? let grief my speeches smother!
No tongue can tell the sorrows of the Mother.
Nor thine, sweet Charles ! nor thine, Elizabeth!
Though one of you have gain'd a Princedom by't::
The grief he hath to have it by the death
Of his sole Brother, makes his heart deny't.
Yet let not Sorrow's black obscuring cloud
Quite cover and eclipse all comfort's light:
Though one fair Star above our height doth shroud,
Let not the Earth be left in darkness quite.
Thou, Charles! art now. our hope; God grant it be
More certain than our last; we trust it will;
Yet we shall have a loving fear of thee:
The burned child the fire much dreadeth still.
But God loves his, and whate'er sorrows threat,
I one day hope to see him Charles the Great.
See, see, fair Princess ! I but nam’d thee yet,
Meaning thy woes within my breast to smother;
But on my thoughts they do so lively beat,
As if I heard thee sighing, Oh my Brother!
Methinks I heard thee calling on his name,
With plaining on his too-ungentle fate;
And sure the Sisters were well worthy blame,
To shew such spite to one that none did hate.
I know thou sometime musest on his face,
(Fair as a woman's, but more manly-fair)
Sometime upon his shape, his speech, and pace,
A thousand ways thy griefs themselves repair.
And oh! no marvel, since your sure-pure loves
Were nearer, dearer, than the Turtle-Doves'.
How often, oh! how often did he vow
To grace thy joyful look’d-for Nuptials ;