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[By Sir Walter Raleigh.]
TO praise thy life, or waile thy worthie death, | |
| And want thy wit, thy wit high, pure, divine, | |
| Is far beyond the powre of mortall line, | |
| Nor any one hath worth that draweth breath. | |
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| Yet rich in zeale, though poore in learnings lore, | 5 |
| And friendly care obscurde in secret brest, | |
| And love that envie in thy life supprest, | |
| Thy deere life done, and death, hath doubled more. | |
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| And I, that in thy time and living state | |
| Did onely praise thy vertues in my thought, | 10 |
| As one that seeld the rising sun hath sought, | |
| With words and teares now waile thy timelesse fate. | |
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| Drawne was thy race aright from princely line, | |
| Nor lesse than such, (by gifts that Nature gave, | |
| The common mother that all creatures have,) | 15 |
| Doth vertue shew, and princely linage shine. | |
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| A king gave thee thy name; a kingly minde, | |
| That God thee gave, who found it now too deere | |
| For this base world, and hath resumde it neere, | |
| To sit in skies, and sort with powers divine. | 20 |
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| Kent thy birth daies, and Oxford held thy youth; | |
| The heavens made hast, and staid nor yeers nor time; | |
| The fruits of age grew ripe in thy first prime, | |
| Thy will, thy words; thy words the seales of truth. | |
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| Great gifts and wisedom rare imployd thee thence, | 25 |
| To treat from kings with those more great than kings, | |
| Such hope men had to lay the highest things | |
| On thy wise youth, to be transported hence. | |
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| Whence to sharpe wars sweet honor did thee call, | |
| Thy countries love, religion, and thy friends: | 30 |
| Of worthy men the marks, the lives, and ends, | |
| And her defence, for whom we labor all. | |
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| There didst thou vanquish shame and tedious age, | |
| Griefe, sorrow, sicknes, and base Fortunes might: | |
| Thy rising day saw never wofull night, | 35 |
| But past with praise from of this worldly stage. | |
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| Back to the campe by thee that day was brought, | |
| First thine owne death, and after thy long fame; | |
| Teares to the soldiers, the proud Castilians shame; | |
| Vertue exprest, and honor truly taught. | 40 |
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| What hath he lost, that such great grace hath woon? | |
| Yoong yeeres for endles yeeres, and hope unsure | |
| Of Fortunes gifts for wealth that still shall dure: | |
| Oh happie race with so great praises run! | |
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| England doth hold thy lims, that bred the same; | 45 |
| Flaunders thy valure, where it last was tried; | |
| The campe thy sorrow, where thy bodie died; | |
| Thy friends, thy want; the world, thy vertues fame. | |
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| Nations thy wit, our mindes lay up thy love; | |
| Letters thy learning; thy losse, yeeres long to come; | 50 |
| In worthy harts sorrow hath made thy tombe; | |
| Thy soule and spright enrich the heavens above. | |
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| Thy liberall hart imbalmd in gratefull teares, | |
| Yoong sighs, sweet sighes, sage sighes, bewaile thy fall: | |
| Envie her sting, and Spite hath left her gall; | 55 |
| Malice her selfe a mourning garment weares. | |
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| That day their Hanniball died, our Scipio fell, | |
| Scipio, Cicero, and Petrarch of our time, | |
| Whose vertues, wounded by my worthlesse rime, | |
| Let angels speake, and heaven thy praises tell. | 60 |
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