AN ELEGY ON THE LADY JANE PAWLET, MARCHIONESS OF WINTON
[From "Underwoods: Consisting of Divers Poems," 1641. Part of 2nd folio edition.]
What gentle ghost, besprent with April dew,
Hails me so solemnly to yonder yew,
And beckoning woos me, from the fatal tree
To pluck a garland for herself or me?
I do obey you, beauty! for in death
You seem a fair one. O that you had breath
To give your shade a name! Stay, stay, I feel
A horror in me, all my blood is steel;
Stiff, stark! my joints 'gainst one another knock !
Whose daughter ?-Ha! great Savage of the Rock.
He's good as great. I am almost a stone,
And ere I can ask more of her, she's gone!—
Alas, I am all marble! write the rest
Thou wouldst have written, Fame, upon my breast:
It is a large fair table, and a true,
And the disposure will be something new,
When I, who would the poet have become,
At least may bear the inscription to her tomb.
She was the Lady Jane, and marchionisse
Of Winchester; the heralds can tell this.
Earl Rivers' grandchild-'serve not forms, good Fame,
Sound thou her virtues, give her soul a name.
Had I a thousand mouths, as many tongues,
And voice to raise them from my brazen lungs,
I durst not aim at that; the dotes were such
Thereof, no notion can express how much
Their caract was: for my trump must break,
But rather I, should I of that part speak;
It is too near of kin to heaven, the soul,
To be described! Fame's fingers are too foul
To touch these mysteries: we may admire
The heat and splendour, but not handle fire.
What she did here, by great example, well,
T'inlive posterity, her Fame may tell;
And calling Truth to witness, make that good
From the inherent graces in her blood!
Else who doth praise a person by a new,
But a feigned way, doth rob it of the true.
Her sweetness, softness, her fair courtesy,
Her wary guards, her wise simplicity,
Were like a ring of Virtues 'bout her set,
And Piety the centre where all met.
A reverend state she had, an awful eye,
A dazzling, yet inviting, majesty :
What Nature, Fortune, Institution, Fact
Could sum to a perfection, was her act!
How did she leave the world, with what contempt
Just as she in it lived, and so exempt
From all affection! when they urged the cure
Of her disease, how did her soul assure
Her sufferings, as the body had been away!
And to the torturers, her doctors, say,
Stick on your cupping-glasses, fear not, put
Your hottest caustics to, burn, lance, or cut:
'Tis but a body which you can torment,
And I into the world all soul was sent.
Then comforted her lord, and blest her son,
Cheered her fair sisters in her race to run,
With gladness tempered her sad parents' tears,
Made her friends joys to get above their fears,
And in her last act taught the standers-by
With admiration and applause to die!
Let angels sing her glories, who did call
Her spirit home to her original;
Who saw the way was made it, and were sent
To carry and conduct the compliment
'Twixt death and life, where her mortality
Became her birth-day to eternity!
And now through circumfusèd light she looks,
On Nature's secret there, as her own books:
Speaks heaven's language, and discourseth free
To every order, every hierarchy !
Beholds her Maker, and in Him doth see
What the beginnings of all beauties be;
And all beatitudes that thence do flow:
Which they that have the crown are sure to know!
Go now, her happy parents, and be sad,
If you not understand what child you had.
If you dare grudge at heaven, and repent
T'have paid again a blessing was but lent,
And trusted so, as it deposited lay
At pleasure, to be called for every day!
If you can envy your own daughter's bliss,
And wish her state less happy than it is;
If you can cast about your either eye,
And see all dead here, or about to die!
The stars, that are the jewels of the night,
And day, deceasing, with the prince of light,
The sun, great kings, and mightiest kingdoms fall;
Whole nations, nay, mankind! the world, with all
That ever had beginning there, t'have end!
With what injustice should one soul pretend
T'escape this common known necessity?
When we were all born, we began to die;
And, but for that contention, and brave strife
The Christian hath t'enjoy the future life,
He were the wretched'st of the race of men:
But as he soars at that, he bruiseth then
The serpent's head; gets above death and sin,
And, sure of heaven, rides triumphing in.
EPITAPH ON MARCHIONESS OF
["Poems of Mr John Milton, both English and Latin, composed at several times, 1646." Lady Winchester died April 15, 1631.]
This rich marble doth inter
The honoured wife of Winchester,
A Viscount's daughter, an Earl's heir,
Besides what her virtues fair
Added to her noble birth,
More than she could own from Earth.
Summers three times eight, save one,
She had told; alas! too soon,
After so short time of breath,
To house with darkness, and with death!
Yet had the number of her days
Been as complete as was her praise,
Nature and Fate had had no strife
In giving limit to her life.
Her high birth, and her graces sweet,
Quickly found a lover meet:
The virgin quire for her request
The god that sits at marriage feast;
He at their invoking came,
But with a scarce well-lighted flame;
And in his garland, as he stood,
Ye might discern a cypress bud.
Once had the early matrons run
To greet her of a lovely son,
And now with second hope she goes,
And calls Lucina to her throes;
But whether by mischance or blame,
Atropos for Lucina came;
And with remorseless cruelty
Spoiled at once both fruit and tree.
The hapless babe before his birth
Had burial, not yet laid in earth;
And the languished mother's womb
Was not long a living tomb.
So have I seen some tender slip,
Saved with care from winter's nip.
The pride of her carnation train,
Plucked up by some unheedy swain,
Who only thought to crop the flower
New shot up from vernal shower;
But the fair blossom hangs the head
Side-ways, as on a dying bed,
And those pearls of dew she wears,
Prove to be presaging tears
Which the sad morn had let fall
On her hastening funeral.
Gentle Lady, may thy grave
Peace and quiet ever have!
After this thy travail sore,
Sweet rest seize thee evermore,
That to give the world increase,
Shortened hast thy own life's lease.
Here, besides the sorrowing
That thy noble house doth bring,
Here be tears of perfect moan
Wept for thee in Helicon;
And some flowers, and some bays,
For thy hearse, to strew the ways,
Sent thee from the banks of Came,
Devoted to thy virtuous name;
Whilst thou, bright Saint, high sitt'st in glory,
Next her, much like to thee in story,
That fair Syrian shepherdess,
Who, after years of barrenness,
The highly-favoured Joseph bore
To him that served for her before,
And at her next birth, much like thee,
Through pangs fled to felicity,
Far within the bosom bright
Of blazing Majesty and Light:
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