Classic Poem

Like a cold Fatall Sweat which ushers Death
My Thoughts hang on mee; and my lab'ring Breath
Stop't up with Sighes; My Phant'sy bigg with woes
Feeles Two Twinn'd Mountaines struggle in her Throwes;
Of boundlesse Sorrow one, T'other of Sinne:
For lesse let no one rate it, To Beginne
Where Honour Ends. In Great Gustavus' flame
That Stile burnt out, and wasted to a Name
Does barely live with us. As, when the Stuff
That fed it failes, the Taper turnes to Snuff.
With this poore Snuff, this Aiery Shadow, wee
Of Fame and Honour must contented bee;
Since from the vaine grasp of our Wishes fled
Their glorious Substance is, now Hee is Dead.
Speak it againe; and lowder; Lowder yet;
Else, whilst wee heare the Sound, wee shall forgett
What it delivers. Let hoarse Rumour cry,
Till shee so many Ecchoes multiply,
Those may like numerous Witnesses confute
Our unbeleeving Soules, that would Dispute
And Doubt this Truth for ever. This one way
Is left our Incredulity to sway,
To waken our deaf Sense, and make our Eares
As open and dilated as our Feares;
That wee may feele the Blow, and feeling grieve
At what wee would not faine, but must beleeve.
And in that horrid Faith behold the world,
From her proud height of Expectation hurl'd,
Stooping with Him: As if shee strove to have
No Lower Center now, then Sweden's Grave.
O! could not all thy purchas'd Victoryes,
Like to thy Fame, thy Flesh immortalize?
Were not thy vertue, nor thy valour charmes
To guard thy Body, from those outward harmes
Which could not reach thy Soule? could not thy Spirit
Lend somewhat, which thy Frailty might inheritt
From thy Diviner part, that Death, nor Hate
Nor Envye's bulletts e're could penetrate?
Could not thy early Trophyes in sterne fight
Torne from the Dane, the Pole, the Moscovite?
(Which were thy Triumphe's Seedes; as pledges sow'n,
That when thy Honour's harvest was ripe grown,
With full-summ'd wing Thou Falcon-like wouldst fly,
And cuff the Eagle in the German Sky:
Forcing his Iron Beak and Feathers feele
They were not proof 'gainst thy Victorious steele.)
Could not all these protect Thee? or prevaile
To fright that Coward Death, who oft grew pale
To look Thee, and Thy Battailes in the face?
Alas they could not! Destiny gives place
To None. Nor is it seene that Princes' Lives
Can saved be by their Praerogatives.
No more was Thine: who clos'd in thy cold Lead
Dost from Thyself a mournfull Lecture read
Of Man's short dated Glory. Learne you Kings!
You are, like Him, but penetrable Things,
Though You from Demi-Gods derive your Birth,
You are at best but Honourable Earth:
And, howe're sifted from that courser bran
Which does Compound and Knead the Common man,
Nothing's immortall, or from Earth refin'd
About You, but your Office, and your Mind.
Here then break your False Glasses, which present
You Greater, then your Maker ever meant.
Make Truth your Mirrour now; since You find all
That flatter You, confuted by His Fall.
Yet since it was decreed, Thy Life's bright Sun
Must be Ecclips'd e're Thy full Course was run,
Be proud, Thou didst in Thy Black Obsequyes
With greater Glory Sett, then Others Rise.
For in thy Death, as Life, Thou heldest One
Most just and regular proportion.
Look how the Circles draw'n by Compasse meet
Indivisibly joyned head to feet,
And by continued pointes which them unite
Grow at once Circular and Infinite:
So did Thy Fate and Honour now contend
To match Thy Brave Beginning with Thy End.
Therfore Thou hadst, insteed of Passing Bells,
The Drumms' and Cannons' Thunder for thy Knells;
And in the Field Thou didst Triumphing Dy,
Closing thy Ey-lids with a Victory.
That so by Thousands, who there lost their Breath,
King-like Thou mightst be waited on in Death.
Liv'd Plutarch now, and would of Caesar tell,
He could make none, but Thee, his Parallell,
Whose Tide of Glory swelling to the brim
Needes borrow no addition from Him.
When did great Julius in any clime
Atchieve so much, and in so small a time?
Or if He did, yet shalt Thou in That Land
Single for Him, and unexampled stand.
When ore the Germans first his Eagle towr'd,
What saw the Legions which on them he powr'd?
But massy Bodyes, made their Swords to try,
Subjects not for his Fight, but Slavery.
In that so vast expanded peece of ground
(Now Sweden's Theater and Tomb) he found
Nothing worth Caesar's Valour or his Feare,
No conqu'ring Army, nor a Tilley there;
Whose strength, nor wiles, nor practise in the warre
Might the fierce Torrent of Thy Triumphs barre,
But that Thy winged Sword Twise made him yeeld,
Both from his Trenches beat, and from the Feild.
Besides the Roman thought he had done much,
Did he the bank of Rhenus only touch:
But though his March was bounded by the Rhine,
Not Oder, nor the Danube Thee confine;
And, but thy Frailty did thy Fame prevent,
Thou hadst Thy Conquests stretch't to such extent,
Thou mightst Vienna reach, and after Span
From Mulda to the Baltick Ocean.
But Death hath Spann'd Thee. Nor must wee divine
What Heire thou leavst to finish Thy Designe;
Or who shall Thee succeed, as Champion
For Liberty and for Religion.
Thy Task is done. As in a Watch the Spring
Wound to the height relaxes with the String:
So thy Steele nerves of Conquest, from their steep
Ascent declin'd, ly slack't in thy Last Sleep.
Rest then Triumphant Soule! for ever rest!
And, like the Phaenix in hir Spicy nest,
Embalm'd with thine owne Meritt, upward fly,
Borne in a Cloud of Perfume to the Sky.
Whilst, as in Deathlesse Urnes, each noble mind
Treasures Thy Ashes which are left behind.
And if perhapps no Cassiopiian Spark
(Which in the North did Thy first Rising mark)
Shine o're Thy Hearse: The Breath of our just Praise
Shall to the Firmament Thy Vertues Raise:
Then Fixe, and Kindle Them into a Starre,
Whose Influence may crowne Thy Glorious Warre.