_An Elegy on Sir Charles Lucas and Sir George Lisle._
In measures solemn as the groans that fall From the hoarse trumpet at some funeral; With trailing Elegy and mournful verse, I wait upon two peerless soldiers' hearse: Though I acknowledge must my sorrow's dress Ill matched to the cause it should express; Nor can I, at my best invention's cost, Sum up the treasure which in them we lost.
Had they, with other worthies of the age, Who late upon the kingdom's bloody stage, 10 For God, the King, and Laws, their valour tried, Through War's stern chance in heat of battle died, We then might save much of our grief's expense, Reputing it, not duty, but offence. They need no tears, nor howling exequy, Who in a glorious undertaking die; Since all that in the bed of honour fell, Live their own Monument and Chronicle.
But these, whom horrid danger did not reach, The wide-mouth'd cannon, nor the wider breach, 20 These, whom, till cruel want and coward fate Penn'd up like famish'd lions in a grate, Were for their daring sallies so much fear'd, Th' assailants fled them like a frighted herd; Resolving now no more to fight, but lurk Trench'd in their line, or earth'd within a work. Where, not like soldiers they, but watchmen, creep, Arm'd for no other office, but to sleep; They, whose bold charge whole armies did amaze, Rend'ring them faint and heartless at the gaze, 30 To see Resolve and Naked Valour charms Of higher proof than all their massy arms; They, whose bright swords ruffled the proudest troop (As fowl unto the tow'ring falcon stoop), Yet no advantage made of their success, Which to the conquer'd spake them merciless (For they, whene'er 'twas begg'd, did safety give, And oft unasked bid the vanquish'd live); Ev'n these, not more undaunted in the field, Than mild and gentle unto such as yield, 40 Were, after all the shocks of battles stood, (Let me not name it) murder'd in cold blood.
Such poor revenge did the enraged Greek Against (till then) victorious Hector seek, Triumphing o'er that body, bound and dead, From whom, in life, the pow'rs of Argos fled. Yet might Achilles borrow some excuse To colour, though not warrant, the abuse: His dearest friend, in the fierce combat foil'd, Was by the Trojan's hand of life despoil'd; 50 From whence unruly grief, grown wild with rage, Beyond the bounds of Honour did engage. But these, confirm'd in their unmanly hate, By counsels cruel, yet deliberate, Did from the stock of bleeding honour hew Two of the noblest branches ever grew; And (which our grief and pity must improve) When brought within their reach with shows of love: For by a treaty they entangled are, And rend'ring up to Mercy is the snare; 60 Whence we have learn'd, whene'er their Saintships treat, The ends are mortal, and the means a cheat; In which the world may read their black intent, Drawn out at large in this sad precedent. Who (though fair promis'd) might no mercy have, But such as once the faithless Bashaw gave, When to his trust deluded Bragadine Himself and Famagosta did resign. Whose envied valour thus to bonds betray'd, Was soon the mark of barb'rous slaughter made: 70 So gallant ships, which rocks and storms had past, Though with torn sails, and spending of their mast, When newly brought within the sight of land, Have been suck'd up by some devouring sand.