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AN ELEGY ON THE LADY JANE PAWLET, MARCHIONESS OF WINTON, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: What gentle ghost, besprent with april dew
Last Line: And, sure of heaven, rides triumphing in.
Subject(s): Death; Pawlett, Lady Jane (d. 1631); Dead, The


What gentle ghost, besprent with April dew,
Hails me, so solemnly, to yonder yew?
And beckoning woos me, from the fatal tree
To pluck a garland, for herself, or me?
I do obey you, beauty! For in death,
You seem a fair one! O that you had breath,
To give your shade a name! Stay, stay, I feel
A horror in me! All my blood is steel!
Stiff! Stark! My joints' gainst one another knock!
Whose daughter? Ha? Great Savage of the rock?
He's good, as great. I am almost a stone!
And ere I can ask more of her she's gone!
Alas, I am all marble! Write the rest
Thou wouldst have written, Fame, upon my breast:
It is a large fair table, and a true,
And the disposure will be something new,
When I, who would the poet have become,
At least may bear the inscription to her tomb.
She was the Lady Jane, and marchioness
Of Winchester; the heralds can tell this.
Earl Rivers's grandchild - serve not forms, good Fame,
Sound thou her virtues, give her soul a name.
Had I a thousand mouths, as many tongues,
And voice to raise them from my brazen lungs,
I durst not aim at that: the dotes were such
Thereof, no notion can express how much
Their carract was! I, or my trump must break,
But rather I, should I of that part speak -
It is too near of kin to heaven - the soul,
To be described! Fame's fingers are too foul
To touch these mysteries! We may admire
The blaze, and splendour, but not handle fire!
What she did here, by great example, well,
To enlive posterity, her Fame may tell!
And, calling truth to witness, make that good
From the inherent graces in her blood!
Else, who doth praise a person by a new,
But a feigned way, doth rob it of the true.
Her sweetness, softness, her fair courtesy,
Her wary guards, her wise simplicity,
Were like a ring of virtues, 'bout her set,
And piety the centre, where all met.
A reverend state she had, an awful eye,
A dazzling, yet inviting, majesty:
What nature, fortune, institution, fact
Could sum to a perfection, was her act!
How did she leave the world? With what contempt?
Just as she in it lived! And so exempt
From all affection! When they urged the cure
Of her disease, how did her soul assure
Her sufferings, as the body had been away!
And to the torturers (her doctors) say,
Stick on your cupping-glasses, fear not, put
Your hottest caustics to burn, lance, or cut:
'Tis but a body which you can torment,
And I, into the world, all soul, was sent!
Then comforted her lord! And blessed her son!
Cheered her fair sisters in her race to run!
With gladness tempered her sad parents' tears!
Made her friends joys, to get above their fears!
And, in her last act, taught the standers-by,
With admiration, and applause to die!
Let angels sing her glories, who did call
Her spirit home, to her original!
Who saw the way was made it! And were sent
To carry and conduct the complement
'Twixt death and life! Where her mortality
Became her birthday to eternity!
And now, through circumfused light, she looks
On nature's secrets, there, as her own books:
Speaks heaven's language, and discourses free
To every order, every hierarchy!
Beholds her Maker! And, in him, doth see
What the beginnings of all beauties be;
And all beatitudes, that thence do flow:
Which they that have the crown are sure to know!
Go now, her happy parents, and be sad
If you not understand, what child you had,
If you dare grudge at heaven, and repent
To have paid again a blessing was but lent,
And trusted so, as it deposited lay
At pleasure, to be called for, every day,
If you can envy your own daughter's bliss,
And wish her state less happy than it is,
If you can cast about your either eye,
And see all dead here, or about to die!
The stars, that are the jewels of the night,
And day, deceasing! With the prince of light,
The sun! Great kings! And mightiest kingdoms fall!
Whole nations! Nay, mankind! The world, with all
That ever had beginning there, to have end!
With what injustice should one soul pretend
To escape this common known necessity,
When we were all born, we began to die;
And, but for that contention, and brave strife
The Christian hath to enjoy the future life,
He were the wretchedest of the race of men:
But as he soars at that, he bruiseth then
The serpent's head: gets above death, and sin,
And, sure of heaven, rides triumphing in.





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