







 
   
     
       
         A poem occasioned on the death of Mr. Henry Purcell, late musician in ordinary to His Majesty by a lover of music.
         Lover of music.
      
       
         
           1696
        
      
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         A55240
         Wing P2681
         ESTC R24058
         07944551
         ocm 07944551
         40629
         
           
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             A poem occasioned on the death of Mr. Henry Purcell, late musician in ordinary to His Majesty by a lover of music.
             Lover of music.
          
           5 p.
           
             Printed for John Whitlock,
             London :
             1696.
          
           
             Reproduction of original in the Huntington Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           Purcell, Henry, 1659-1695 -- Poetry.
           Elegiac poetry -- England -- London -- Early works to 1800.
        
      
    
     
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           A
           POEM
           Occasioned
           on
           the
           Death
           of
           Mr.
           Henry
           Purcell
           ,
           Late
           Musician
           in
           Ordinary
           To
           His
           MAJESTY
           .
        
         
           
             Quocunque
             choros
             agitat
             mors
             Musica
             dormit
             .
          
           
             Bat.
             
          
        
         
           By
           a
           Lover
           of
           Musick
           .
        
         
           LONDON
           ,
           Printed
           for
           
             John
             Whitlock
          
           ,
           near
           Stationers-Hall
           ,
           MDCXCVI
           .
        
         
      
    
     
       
         
         
           A
           POEM
           On
           the
           Death
           of
           Mr.
           
             Henry
             Purcell
          
           ,
           &c.
           
        
         
           
             I.
             
          
           
             YE
             Gentle
             Sphears
          
           
             Cease
             now
             your
             wonted
             melody
             ,
          
           
             Rest
             and
             ever
             silent
             be
             —
          
           
             Nought
             now
             remains
             for
             Comfort
             or
             Relief
             ,
          
           
             But
             a
             free
             vent
             to
             our
             just
             source
             of
             grief
             .
          
           
             An
             untaught
             Groan
             best
             language
             is
             ,
          
           
             For
             such
             a
             dismal
             Scene
             as
             This.
          
           
             Yet
             like
             the
             dying
             Swans
             you
             first
             may
             tell
             ,
          
           
             In
             softest
             Musick
             to
             attending
             Ears
             ,
          
           
             How
             the
             Lov'd
             Strephon
             liv'd
             ,
             and
             how
             lamented
             fell
             :
          
           
             Tell
             then
             th'
             admiring
             World
             how
             often
             He
             ,
          
           
             Has
             ev'n
             charm'd
             you
             to
             exstasie
             ,
          
           
             How
             oft
             you
             've
             envy'd
             at
             the
             praise
             he
             won
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             smil'd
             to
             see
             your selves
             out
             done
             .
          
           
             Tell
             this
             in
             diff'rent
             Notes
             ,
             in
             such
             as
             he
             ,
          
           
             Was
             us'd
             to
             charm
             us
             hear
             below
             ,
             that
             make
             one
             Harmony
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             II.
             
          
           
             The
             little
             Birds
             throughout
             the
             Plains
             ,
          
           
             Repeat
             their
             Notes
             in
             doleful
             Strain
             .
          
           
             In
             doleful
             strains
             they
             all
             complain
          
           
             As
             if
             they
             never
             were
             to
             Sing
             again
             .
          
           
             Sad
             P●●●omel
             amongst
             ●he
             rest
          
           
             As
             if
             some
             Story
             ●he
             relate
             ,
          
           
             Not
             of
             her
             own
             ,
             but
             of
             her
             Masters
             cruel
             Fate
             ,
          
           
             In
             mornful
             Notes
             her
             grief
             exprest
             ,
          
           
             In
             careless
             melancholy
             Lays
          
           
             She
             ●●ng
             his
             Praise
             .
          
           
             Now
             all
             her
             Art
             she
             trys
             ,
          
           
             Now
             all
             her
             Strength
             applys
             ,
          
           
             To
             warble
             forth
             an
             Elegy
          
           
             Sacred
             to
             his
             Memory
             .
          
           
             She
             Sings
             ,
             alas
             her
             Songs
             are
             all
             in
             vain
             ,
          
           
             Nothing
             can
             alter
             Destiny
             ,
          
           
             The
             Swain
             can
             ne're
             return
             to
             life
             again
             .
          
        
         
           
             III.
             
          
           
             What
             do
             I
             hear
             ,
             what
             dismal
             Groans
             ,
          
           
             What
             Sights
             ,
             what
             Shreiks
             ,
             what
             melancholy
             Moans
             ,
          
           
             Now
             spread
             themselves
             o're
             all
             the
             Pensive
             Plains
             ,
          
           
             And
             tears
             the
             breasts
             of
             all
             the
             tender
             Swains
             ,
          
           
             'T
             is
             for
             Strephon
             Dead
             and
             gone
             .
          
           
             Mourn
             all
             ye
             Shepherds
             ,
             mourn
             with
             me
             your
             Masters
             Fall
             ,
          
           
             With
             me
             attend
             his
             Funeral
             ,
          
           
             With
             me
             adorn
             his
             Herse
          
           
             With
             never
             fadeing
             Garland
             ,
             never
             dying
             Verse
             .
          
           
             Alas
             !
             no
             Sounds
             will
             now
             prevail
             ,
          
           
             To
             tell
             their
             melancholy
             Tale
             ,
          
           
           
             Since
             dead
             is
             He
             who
             made
             their
             Songs
             to
             live
             ,
          
           
             He
             their
             dull
             numbers
             could
             inspire
             ,
          
           
             With
             charming
             Voice
             ,
             and
             tuneful
             Lyre
             ,
          
           
             He
             life
             to
             all
             ,
             but
             to
             himself
             could
             give
             .
          
           
             No
             longer
             now
             the
             Swains
             unto
             each
             other
             play
             ,
          
           
             Their
             Arms
             a
             cross
             ,
             their
             Heads
             hung
             down
             ,
          
           
             Their
             Oaten
             Pipes
             ,
             besides
             them
             thrown
             ,
          
           
             Their
             Flocks
             neglected
             stray
             ,
          
           
             Ev'n
             Pan
             himself
             o'rewhelm'd
             with
             grief
             ,
             has
             thrown
             his
             Pipe
             away
             .
          
        
         
           
             IV.
             
          
           
             See
             Love
             himself
             all
             bath'd
             in
             Tears
             ,
          
           
             His
             Bow
             he
             brakes
             ,
             away
             his
             Darts
             he
             flings
             ,
          
           
             Then
             folds
             his
             Arms
             ,
             and
             hangs
             his
             drooping
             Wings
             ,
          
           
             Venus
             her self
             close
             mourner
             here
             appears
             .
          
           
             No
             longer
             now
             she
             thinks
             her self
             secure
             ,
          
           
             But
             sighing
             from
             her
             Throne
             looks
             down
             ,
          
           
             Her
             greatness
             cannot
             long
             endure
          
           
             Since
             it's
             supporter's
             dead
             and
             gone
             ;
          
           
             Since
             that
             the
             tuneful
             
             Strephon's
             Fall'n
             —
          
           
             Now
             silent
             lyes
             his
             Lyre
             ,
          
           
             No
             longer
             warms
             our
             hearts
             into
             desire
             ,
          
           
             For
             dead
             is
             he
             who
             could
             our
             Passions
             move
             ,
          
           
             Who
             best
             could
             gentle
             thoughts
             inspire
             ,
          
           
             Who
             best
             could
             fan
             the
             amorous
             fire
             ,
          
           
             Make
             us
             at
             once
             submit
             ,
             and
             own
             the
             Pow'r
             of
             Love.
             
          
        
         
           
             V.
             
          
           
             Gone
             is
             the
             glory
             of
             our
             Age
             ,
          
           
             The
             Pride
             and
             Darling
             of
             the
             Stage
             .
          
           
             The
             Theatre
             his
             worth
             well
             knew
             ,
          
           
             Saw
             how
             by
             him
             it's
             greatness
             grew
             .
          
           
           
             In
             him
             their
             honour
             Pride
             and
             Glory
             liv'd
             ,
          
           
             Far
             as
             his
             Soul
             they
             now
             are
             fled
             ,
          
           
             And
             scarce
             can
             sooner
             be
             retriev'd
             ,
          
           
             For
             all
             their
             hopes
             in
             him
             are
             dead
             .
          
           
             Whil'st
             he
             vouchsaf'd
             to
             stay
             below
          
           
             They
             were
             too
             blest
             long
             to
             continue
             so
             .
          
           
             But
             oh
             !
             no
             more
             the
             tuneful
             
             Strephon's
             Songs
             they
             'l
             hear
             ,
          
           
             No
             more
             his
             joyful
             Notes
             will
             glad
             the
             wondring
             Theatre
             .
          
        
         
           
             VI.
             
          
           
             Ye
             Sons
             of
             Phebus
             write
             his
             Elegy
          
           
             But
             let
             it
             be
          
           
             Great
             as
             the
             Subject
             ,
             sad
             as
             your
             Calamity
             ,
          
           
             Let
             every
             Muse
             his
             Praise
             aloud
             proclaim
          
           
             And
             to
             the
             distant
             Poles
             ,
             let
             Echo
             spread
             his
             Fame
             .
          
           
             Write
             Epitaphs
             that
             so
          
           
             The
             world
             may
             know
             ,
          
           
             How
             much
             to
             him
             ev'n
             Poetry
             did
             owe
             ,
          
           
             For
             you
             but
             say
             ,
             't
             is
             he
             that
             makes
             you
             sing
             ,
          
           
             His
             Art
             the
             Embrio
             words
             does
             to
             perfection
             bring
             .
          
           
             By
             us
             the
             Muse
             at
             first
             conceives
             ,
             't
             is
             true
             ,
          
           
             He
             makes
             it
             fit
             to
             see
             the
             light
             ,
             that
             gift
             to
             him
             we
             owe
             :
          
           
             Nake'd
             at
             first
             and
             rugged
             they
             appear
             ,
          
           
             But
             when
             by
             him
             adorn'd
             they
             be
             ,
          
           
             Assume
             a
             Pomp
             and
             Bravery
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             need
             they
             longer
             blush
             to
             reach
             a
             Prnces
             Ear.
             
          
        
         
           
           
             VII
             .
          
           
             How
             rigid
             are
             the
             Laws
             of
             Fate
             ,
          
           
             And
             how
             severe
             the
             black
             Decree
             ,
          
           
             For
             nothing
             ,
             nothing
             here
             is
             free
             ,
          
           
             But
             all
             must
             enter
             th'
             Adamantine
             Gate
             .
          
           
             The
             Great
             ,
             the
             Good
             ,
             the
             Just
             ,
             nay
             all
             ,
             must
             come
             ,
          
           
             To
             Natures
             dark
             retireing
             Room
             .
          
           
             He
             !
             he
             !
             alas
             is
             gone
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             gentle
             Airs
             did
             make
             our
             Numbers
             live
             ,
          
           
             Who
             Immortality
             could
             give
             ,
          
           
             His
             Soul
             to't's
             first
             aboade
             away
             is
             flown
             ,
          
           
             Blasted
             are
             all
             our
             Glories
             now
             ,
          
           
             Our
             Lawrels
             wither
             as
             they
             grow
             ,
          
           
             The
             Muse
             her self
             forsakes
             us
             too
             .
          
           
             Come
             then
             ,
             come
             quickly
             come
             ,
          
           
             Let
             's
             pay
             our
             tears
             for
             off'rings
             at
             his
             Tomb.
          
           
             Let
             us
             not
             strive
             ,
             who
             best
             deserves
             the
             Bays
             ,
          
           
             He
             that
             grieves
             most
             ,
             best
             claims
             the
             Highest
             Praise
             .
          
        
         
           
             VIII
             .
          
           
             Arise
             ye
             blest
             Inhabitants
             above
             ,
          
           
             From
             your
             immortal
             Seats
             arise
             ,
          
           
             And
             on
             our
             Wonder
             ,
             on
             our
             Love
             ,
          
           
             Gaze
             with
             astonish'd
             eyes
             ;
          
           
             Arise
             ,
             Arise
             ,
             make
             room
             ,
          
           
             The
             wish'd
             for
             shade
             is
             come
             ;
          
           
             Hast
             and
             your selves
             prepare
          
           
             To
             me
             the
             joyful
             Chorister
             ,
          
           
             Meet
             him
             half
             way
             with
             Songs
             ,
             such
             as
             you
             sing
             ,
          
           
             Before
             the
             throne
             of
             the
             Eternal
             King
             ,
          
           
             With
             welcomes
             let
             th'
             Aetherial
             Palace
             ring
             ,
          
           
             Welcome
             the
             Gardian
             Angel
             says
             ,
          
           
             Full
             of
             Songs
             ,
             and
             full
             of
             Bays
             ,
          
           
             Welcome
             thou
             art
             to
             me
             ,
          
           
             And
             to
             these
             Regions
             of
             Serenity
             ;
          
           
             Welcome
             the
             winged
             Choire
             resounds
             ,
          
           
             While
             with
             loud
             Euges
             all
             the
             sacred
             place
             abounds
             .
          
           
             Low
             now
             above
             he
             chants
             Eternal
             Lays
          
           
             Above
             our
             wonder
             ,
             and
             our
             Praise
             .
          
        
         
           FINIS
           .
        
      
    
     
  

