An elegie upon the death of the most illustrious and victorious Prince Gustavus Adolphus King of Swethland &c. Composed immediately after the first rumours of his death, and now published and dedicated to the memoriall of so renouned a prince.

AN ELEGIE UPON THE DEATH OF THE MOST ILLVSTRIOVS AND VICTORIOUS PRINCE GVSTAVUS ADOLPHVS KING OF SWETHLAND &c. COMPOSED IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE FIRST RUMOURS OF HIS DEATH , AND NOW published and dedicated to the memoriall of so renouned a Prince . WHat strange sad silence , doth the world astound ? Why doth not Fame's still eccho'ng trumpet sound ? She 's grown forgetfull , or else hoarse , I fear ; That we , no more victorious sounds can heare . 'T was but of late ; when as the thundring noise , Of doubled triumphs , conquests , and applause Fill'd our Horizon , and the aire did ring , With shouts of praise , to Swedes victorious King . Was this a dream , or fancied apparition ; And now is vanisht like a fleeting vision ? Could all the world be thus deluded ? No. 'T was surely reall , and no feigned show ! Those bloudie battels , and those dismall fights , We lately heard , were not like vap'rie sights , Compos'd of airie breath , which to the eye , Two dreadfull Armies , grappling do descrie ! These ! These were reall , and thy direfull steel , ( Victorious Prince ! ) shall after ages feel ! And those deep wounds , which in thy furious ire , Thou did'st inflict by force of thundring fire , Shall leave wide scarres , upon the German land ; Which shall for ever , to their terrour stand ! This thou hast done allready ; and amaz'd Remotest kingdomes , where thy deeds are blaz'd . But on a suddain , loe ! thou dost appeare , To stop , in middle of thy full careere ! All tongues are silent , and our greedie eares , Heare nothing now ; but terrours , doubts , and fears ! Or Fame her self is dead ; or he that gave Life unto Fame , is sunk into his grave ! Fame cannot die ! Oh! can he die , whose look , So many thousands dead at once hath struck ? What mortall durst give him a wound , whose eye , Hath made grimme Death to start , and turn awrie ? Sure he 's not dead ! Swethlands for grief would roar ; And make their groans heard to our English shore ; If he were dead , whom they have priz'd more deare Then their own proper lives , and did not fear To runne like Lions at their Princes words , Upon the mouthes of Canons , points of Swords ! He 's dead I fear ! For can he living be , And we no spoils , nor further conquests see ? Can he be living and not heard to thunder ; To batter cities , and trample kingdomes under ? Whose very soul , was fire Aethereall pure : Such as no mortall bodies can endure ! His breath was direfull smoke , and from his hands Flew show'rs of iron-balls , that quell'd whole lands ! Can that Sulphurious dust , more quick then winde , Once toucht with flame . in prison be combinde ? Not steel , nor iron , nor the hardest brasse , Can stay its furie for the shortest space ! Though mighty mountains prest this living flame ; Yet would it teare them and an entrance frame , His Hellish breath , and dismall noise to vent ; Nor would it cease , till all his furie spent . Thus hath it been with Europes Northern Starre ; And Swedes Victorious Prince , made all for warre : Whose Spirit toucht with fire from heav'n , did blaze Like to some Comet , sent for to amaze And scourge us mortal wights : whose direfull breath Doth shoot down vengeance , terrours , plagues , and death ! Had Turk , and Tartar , and the Triple crown That awes the Christian world , and treadeth down , Monarches , as slaves , themselves in one combin'd ; This Heav'n-sent furie had , like lightning winde , Shot through them all ; and like to scatter'd corn , Their feeble squadrons , had been rent , and torn : Till his Celestiall vigour were quite spent ; No Warres , no Ruines could his ire content ! But now his date is out , and his Commission Is stopt from heav'n with a new Prohition ! He 's dead ! Oh bitter word ! enough to make Stones for to weep , and iron hearts to ake ! So soon , alasse ! In so unwisht an houre , Is all our joy quell'd , by some secret power ! Why do we not breath forth such dolefull grones , And powre such melting tears ; as should hard stones Dissolve into salt drops ; that they , and we , Might so expresse one mournfull Elegie ! What! are we spent and drie ? I see no teares : I heare no grones : no wailings pierce my eares ! Oh pardon me ! I fear my faltring tongue , Distract with troubled sorrow doth you wrong ! 'T is slender grief that doth by weeping vent ; And `t is not much , that can by teares be spent ! But this , this sorrow , like a mortall wound , Strikes deep , and doth our senses quite astound : Lies like a lump of lead , or heavie weight , Upon our heart , and presses it so straight , That neither sigh nor grone can issue thence ; But lies as dead , and quite bereft of sense ! Since then 't is so : we cannot weep ; let 's borrow , From others help , for to expresse our sorrow , Ye glistring lamps above . ye Northern starres , That roul about the Pole , your frozen Carres ! In Thetis waves , plunge over head and eares , That you may have your fill , of brinish teares : And by sad influence , make the heav'ns to low'r ; And to the earth , send down a weeping show'r ! But chiefly on that place , that cursed ground , Where Adolph first receiv'd his mortall wound ! Let never grasse , nor verdant hearb grow there ; Nor any tree , nor ground it self appeare . Let it be all a lake , whose face may look , Just like the colour of the Infernall brook : Like pichie Stix , or black-stream'd Acheron ; Or like Cocytus , or dark Phlegethon : That it may seem to all , a mourning vail , Which doth the compasse of that ground empale : And let its murmuring waves , make such a noise , As may expresse to us , the dolefull voice Of some , that crie , that roar , that shreik , that groan : Of some , that mourn , that weep , that wail , that moan ! That after ages , to their children may Tell this sad storie , when they passe that way . These fouls do mourn , for Swethlands conqu'ring King : But these , whose clamours fearfully do ring . Are such , as in this place , died by his power ; And thus expresse , their horrour to this houre ! Mean while ( renowned Prince ) sleep thou secure , No further pains , nor travels to endure ! The dreadfull Cannons , which so oft did roar , And thunder in thy eares ; shall now no more Disturb thy rest ; nor force thee to arise In suddain hast , glut now with sleep thine eyes ! While that a quire of Angels in a ring , Shall round about thee blessed musick sing . FINIS .