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Title: An Elegy On The Death Of Mr. R. Hall, Slain At Pontefract, 1648
Author: Henry Vaughan [
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I knew it would be thus! and my just fears
Of thy great spirit are improv'd to tears.
Yet flow these not from any base distrust
Of a fair name, or that thy honour must
Confin'd to those cold relics sadly sit
In the same cell an obscure anchorite.
Such low distempers murder; they that must
Abuse thee so, weep not, but wound thy dust.
But I past such dim mourners can descry
Thy fame above all clouds of obloquy,
And like the sun with his victorious rays
Charge through that darkness to the last of days.
'Tis true, fair manhood hath a female eye,
And tears are beauteous in a victory,
Nor are we so high-proof, but grief will find
Through all our guards a way to wound the mind;
But in thy fall what adds the brackish sum
More than a blot unto thy martyrdom?
Which scorns such wretched suffrages, and stands
More by thy single worth than our whole bands.
Yet could the puling tribute rescue ought
In this sad loss, or wert thou to be brought
Back here by tears, I would in any wise
Pay down the sum, or quite consume my eyes.
Thou fell'st our double ruin; and this rent
Forc'd in thy life shak'd both the Church and tent.
Learning in others steals them from the van,
And basely wise emasculates the man,
But lodg'd in thy brave soul the bookish feat
Serv'd only as the light unto thy heat.
Thus when some quitted action, to their shame,
And only got a discreet coward's name,
Thou with thy blood mad'st purchase of renown,
And died'st the glory of the sword and gown.
Thy blood hath hallow'd Pomfret, and this blow
--Profan'd before--hath church'd the Castle now.
Nor is't a common valour we deplore,
But such as with fifteen a hundred bore,
And lightning-like--not coop'd within a wall--
In storms of fire and steel fell on them all.
Thou wert no woolsack soldier, nor of those
Whose courage lies in winking at their foes,
That live at loopholes, and consume their breath
On match or pipes, and sometimes peep at death;
No, it were sin to number these with thee,
But that--thus pois'd--our loss we better see.
The fair and open valour was thy shield,
And thy known station, the defying field.
Yet these in thee I would not virtues call,
But that this age must know that thou hadst all.
Those richer graces that adorn'd thy mind
Like stars of the first magnitude, so shin'd,
That if oppos'd unto these lesser lights
All we can say is this, they were fair nights.
Thy piety and learning did unite,
And though with sev'ral beams made up one light,
And such thy judgment was, that I dare swear
Whole councils might as soon and synods err.
But all these now are out! and as some star
Hurl'd in diurnal motions from far,
And seen to droop at night, is vainly said
To fall and find an occidental bed,
Though in that other world what we judge West
Proves elevation, and a new, fresh East;
So though our weaker sense denies us sight,
And bodies cannot trace the spirit's flight,
We know those graces to be still in thee,
But wing'd above us to eternity.
Since then--thus flown--thou art so much refin'd
That we can only reach thee with the mind,
I will not in this dark and narrow glass
Let thy scant shadow for perfections pass,
But leave thee to be read more high, more quaint,
In thy own blood a soldier and a saint.
----Salve aeternum mihi maxime Palla!
Aeternumque vale!----
[The end]
Henry Vaughan's poem: Elegy On The Death Of Mr. R. Hall, Slain At Pontefract, 1648
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