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         Flatman, Thomas, 1637-1688.
      
       
         
           1681
        
      
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             A Pindarique ode on the death of the Right Honourable Thomas, Earl of Ossory by Thomas Flatman, Esq.
             Flatman, Thomas, 1637-1688.
          
           [2], 5 p.
           
             Printed by J.G. for Benjamin Tooke ...,
             London :
             1681.
          
           
             Reproduction of original in Huntington Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           Ossory, Thomas Butler, -- Earl of, 1634-1680 -- Poetry.
           Elegiac poetry, English.
        
      
    
     
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           Pindarique
           Ode
           ON
           THE
           DEATH
           Of
           the
           Right
           Honourable
           THOMAS
           EARL
           of
           OSSORY
           .
        
         
           By
           
             Thomas
             Flatman
             ,
          
           Esq
           ;
        
         
           
             Amotum
             ex
             oculis
             quaerimus
             invidi
             .
          
           
             Horat.
             
          
        
         
           LONDON
           ,
           Printed
           by
           
             J.
             G.
          
           for
           
             Benjamin
             Tooke
          
           at
           the
           Ship
           in
           St.
           
             Paul's
          
           Church-yard
           .
           1681.
           
        
      
    
     
       
         
         
         
           ON
           THE
           DEATH
           Of
           the
           Right
           Honourable
           THOMAS
           EARL
           of
           OSSORY
           .
           Pindariq
           '
           Ode
           .
        
         
           
             Stanza
             .
             I.
             
          
           
             NO
             more
             !
             —
             Alas
             that
             bitter
             word
             ,
             
               No
               more
               !
            
          
           
             The
             Great
             ,
             the
             Just
             ,
             the
             Generous
             ,
             the
             Kind
             ,
          
           
             The
             universal
             Darling
             of
             Mankind
             ,
          
           
             The
             Noble
             
               Ossory
            
             is
             now
             
               No
               more
               !
            
          
           
             The
             Mighty
             Man
             is
             fall'n
             —
          
           
             From
             Glory's
             lofty
             Pinacle
             ;
          
           
             Meanly
             like
             one
             of
             Us
             He
             fell
             ,
          
           
           
             Not
             in
             the
             hot
             pursuit
             of
             Victory
             ,
          
           
             As
             Gallant
             Men
             would
             chuse
             to
             dy
             ;
          
           
             But
             tamely
             like
             a
             poor
             Plebeian
             ,
             from
             his
             Bed
          
           
             To
             the
             dark
             Grave
             a
             Captive
             led
             ;
          
           
             Emasculating
             Sighs
             and
             Groans
             around
             ,
          
           
             His
             Friends
             in
             flouds
             of
             Sorrow
             drown'd
             ;
          
           
             His
             awful
             Truncheon
             ,
             and
             bright
             Arms
             laid
             by
             ,
          
           
             He
             bow'd
             his
             glorious
             Head
             to
             Destiny
             .
          
        
         
           
             II.
             
          
           
             Celestial
             Powers
             ,
             how
             unconcern'd
             you
             are
             ?
          
           
             No
             black
             Eclipse
             ,
             or
             Blazing-Star
          
           
             Presag'd
             the
             Death
             of
             this
             Illustrious
             Man
             ,
          
           
             No
             Deluge
             ,
             no
             ,
             nor
             Hurricane
             ;
          
           
             In
             her
             old
             wonted
             course
             Nature
             went
             on
             ,
          
           
             As
             if
             some
             common
             thing
             were
             done
             ,
          
           
             One
             single
             Victim
             to
             Deaths
             Altar
             come
             ,
          
           
             And
             not
             in
             
               OSSORY
            
             an
             whole
             Hecatombe
             .
          
           
             Yet
             ,
             when
             the
             Founder
             of
             Old
             
               Rome
            
             expir'd
             ,
          
           
             When
             the
             
               Pellean
            
             Youth
             resign'd
             his
             breath
             ,
          
           
             And
             when
             the
             great
             
               Dictator
            
             stoop't
             to
             Death
             ,
          
           
             Nature
             and
             all
             her
             Faculties
             retir'd
             ;
          
           
             Amaz'd
             she
             started
             when
             amaz'd
             she
             saw
          
           
             The
             breaches
             of
             her
             ancient
             Fundamental
             Law
          
           
             Which
             kept
             the
             World
             in
             aw
             ;
          
           
           
             For
             men
             less
             brave
             than
             Him
             ,
             her
             very
             Heart
             did
             ake
             ,
          
           
             The
             labouring
             Earth
             did
             quake
             ,
          
           
             And
             Trees
             their
             fixt
             Foundations
             did
             forsake
             ;
          
           
             Nature
             in
             some
             prodigious
             way
          
           
             Gave
             notice
             of
             their
             fatal
             Day
             .
          
           
             Those
             lesser
             Griefs
             with
             pain
             she
             thus
             exprest
             ,
          
           
             This
             did
             confound
             ,
             and
             overwhelm
             her
             Brest
             .
          
        
         
           
             III.
             
          
           
             Shrink
             ye
             
               Crown'd
               Heads
               ,
            
             that
             think
             your selves
             secure
             ,
          
           
             And
             from
             your
             mouldring
             Thrones
             look
             down
             ,
          
           
             Your
             greatness
             cannot
             long
             endure
             ,
          
           
             The
             
               King
               of
               Terrors
            
             claims
             you
             for
             his
             own
             ;
          
           
             You
             are
             but
             Tributaries
             to
             his
             dreadful
             Crown
             .
          
           
             Renown'd
             ,
             Serene
             ,
             Imperial
             ,
             most
             August
             ,
          
           
             Are
             only
             high
             and
             mighty
             Epithets
             for
             Dust.
          
           
             In
             vain
             ,
             in
             vain
             so
             high
          
           
             Our
             tow'ring
             expectations
             flie
             ,
          
           
             While
             th'
             Blossoms
             of
             our
             hopes
             ,
             so
             fresh
             ,
             so
             gay
             ,
          
           
             Appear
             ,
             and
             promise
             Fruit
             ,
             then
             fade
             away
             .
          
           
             From
             valiant
             
               OSSORY'S
            
             ever
             Loyal
             Hands
          
           
             What
             did
             we
             not
             believe
             ?
          
           
             We
             dream't
             of
             yet
             unconquer'd
             Lands
          
           
             He
             to
             his
             
               Prince
            
             could
             give
             ,
          
           
             And
             neighbouring
             Crowns
             retrive
             ;
          
           
             Expected
             that
             he
             would
             in
             Triumph
             come
          
           
             Laden
             with
             Spoils
             ,
             and
             
               Affrick
            
             Banners
             home
             ,
          
           
           
             As
             if
             an
             
               Hero's
            
             years
          
           
             Were
             as
             unbounded
             as
             our
             fond
             Desires
             .
          
        
         
           
             IV.
             
          
           
             Lament
             ,
             Lament
             ,
             you
             that
             dare
             
               Honour
            
             love
             ,
          
           
             And
             court
             her
             at
             a
             Noble
             rate
          
           
             (
             Your
             Prowess
             to
             approve
             ,
             )
          
           
             That
             dare
             religiously
             upon
             
               Her
            
             wait
             ,
          
           
             And
             blush
             not
             to
             be
             Good
             ,
             when
             you
             grow
             Great
             ,
          
           
             Such
             Mourners
             suit
             
               His
            
             Vertue
             ,
             and
             
               His
            
             State.
          
           
             And
             you
             ,
             brave
             Souls
             ,
             who
             for
             your
             Country's
             good
          
           
             Did
             wond'rous
             things
             in
             Fields
             ,
             and
             Seas
             of
             Blood
             ,
          
           
             Lament
             th'
             undaunted
             Chief
             that
             led
             you
             on
             ;
          
           
             Whose
             exemplary
             Courage
             could
             inspire
          
           
             The
             most
             degenerate
             Heart
             ,
             with
             Martial-English
             Fire
             .
          
           
             Your
             bleeding
             Wounds
             who
             shall
             hereafter
             dress
          
           
             With
             an
             indulgent
             tenderness
             ;
          
           
             Touch't
             with
             a
             melting
             Sympathy
             ,
          
           
             Who
             shall
             your
             Wants
             supply
             ?
          
           
             Since
             He
             ,
             your
             good
             
               Samaritan
            
             is
             gone
             .
          
           
             O
             Charity
             !
             thou
             richest
             Boon
             of
             Heaven
             ,
          
           
             To
             Man
             ,
             in
             pity
             given
             !
          
           
             (
             For
             when
             well
             meaning
             Mortals
             give
             ,
          
           
             The
             Poor's
             ,
             and
             their
             own
             Bowels
             they
             relieve
             ;
             )
          
           
             Thou
             mak'st
             us
             with
             alacrity
             to
             Dy
             ,
          
           
             Mis't
             and
             bewail'd
             like
             Thee
             large-hearted
             
               OSSORY
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             V.
             
          
           
             Arise
             ye
             blest
             Inhabitants
             Above
             ,
          
           
             From
             your
             Immortal
             Seats
             Arise
             ,
          
           
             And
             on
             our
             Wonder
             ,
             on
             our
             Love
          
           
             Gaze
             with
             astonish't
             Eyes
             .
          
           
             Arise
             !
             Arise
             !
             make
             roome
             ,
          
           
             Th'
             exalted
             shade
             is
             come
             .
          
           
             See
             where
             He
             comes
             !
             what
             Princely
             Port
             He
             bears
             !
          
           
             How
             God-like
             He
             appears
             !
          
           
             His
             shining
             Temples
             round
          
           
             With
             Wreaths
             of
             everlasting
             Lawrels
             bound
             !
          
           
             As
             from
             the
             bloudy
             Field
             of
             
               Mons
            
             He
             came
             ,
          
           
             Where
             He
             out
             fought
             th'
             Hyperbolies
             of
             Fame
             .
          
           
             See
             how
             the
             Guardian
             Angel
             of
             our
             Isle
          
           
             Receiv's
             the
             Deifi'd
             Champion
             with
             a
             Smile
             !
          
           
             Welcome
             the
             Guardian
             Angel
             say's
          
           
             Full
             of
             Songs
             of
             Joy
             and
             Praise
             ,
          
           
             Welcome
             Thou
             art
             to
             me
             ,
          
           
             And
             to
             these
             Regions
             of
             Serenitie
             !
          
           
             Welcome
             the
             Winged
             Quire
             resounds
             ,
          
           
             While
             with
             loud
             
               Euge's
            
             all
             the
             Sacred
             Place
             abounds
             .
          
        
         
           
             THOMAS
             FLATMAN
             .
          
        
      
    
     
  

