Poems By Thomas Carevv Esquire. One of the gentlemen of the Privie-Chamber, and Sewer in Ordinary to His Majesty.

In answer of an Elegiacall Let∣ter upon the death of the King of Sweden from Aurelian Townsend, inviting me to write on that subject.

WHy dost thou sound, my deare Aurelian, In so shrill accents, from thy Barbican. A loude allarum to my drowsie eyes, Bidding them wake in teares and Elegies For mightie Swedens fall? Alas! how may My Lyrique feet, that of the smooth soft way Of Love, and Beautie, onely know the tread, In dancing paces celebrate the dead Victorious King, or his Majesticke Hearse Prophane with th'humble touch of their low verse? Virgil, nor Lucan, no, nor Tasso more Then both, not Donne, worth all that went before, With the united labour of their wit Could a just Poem to this subject fit, His actions were too mighty to be rais'd Higher by Verse, let him in prose be prays'd,

In modest faithfull story, which his deedes Shall turne to Poems: when the next Age reades Of Frankfort, Leipsigh, Worsburgh, of the Rhyne; The Leck, the Danube, Tilly, Wallestein, Bavaria, Bapenheim, Lutzenfield, where Hee Gain'd after death a posthume Victorie, They'le thinke his Acts things rather feign'd then done Like our Romances of the Knight o'th' Sun. Leave we him then to the grave Chronicler, Who though to Annals he can not refer His too-briefe storie, yet his Journals may Stand by the Caesars yeares, and every day Cut into minutes, each, shall more containe Of great designement then an Emperours raigne; And (since 'twas but his Church-yard) let him have For his owne ashes now no narrower Grave Then the whole German Continents vast wombe, Whilst all her Cities doe but make his Tombe: Letus to supreame providence commit The fate of Monarchs, which first thought it fit To rend the Empire from the Austrian graspe, And next from Swedens, even when he did claspe Within his dying armes the Soveraigntie Of all those Provinces, that men might see

The Divine wisedome would not leave that Land Subject to any one Kings sole command. Then let the Germans feare if Caesar shall, Or the Vnited Princes, rise, and fall, But let us that in myrtle bowers sit Vnder secure shades, use the benefit Of peace and plenty, which the blessed hand Of our good King gives this obdurate Land, Let us of Revels sing, and let thy breath (Which fill'd Fames trumpet with Gustavus death, Blowing his name to heaven) gently inspire Thy past'r all pipe, till all our swaines admire Thy song and subject, whilst they both comprise The beauties of the SHEPHERDS PARADISE; For who like thee (whose loose discourse is farre More neate and polisht then our Poems are, Whose very gate's more gracefull then our dance) In sweetly flowing numbers may advance The glorious night? When, not to act foule rapes, Like birds, or beasts, but in their Angel-shapes A troope of Deities came downe to guide Our steerelesse barkes in passions swelling tide By vertues Carde, and brought us from above A patterne of their owne celestiall love.

Nor lay it in darke sullen precepts drown'd But with rich fancie, and cleare Action crown'd Through a misterious fable (that was drawne Like a transparant veyle of purest Lawne Before their dazelling beauties) the divine Venus, did with her heavenly Cupid shine. The stories curious web, the Masculine stile; The subtile sence, did Time and sleepe beguile, Pinnion'd and charm'd they stood to gaze upon Th' Angellike formes, gestures, and motion. To heare those ravishing sounds that did dispence Knowledge and pleasure, to the soule, and sense. It fill'd us with amazement to behold Love made all spirit, his corporeall mold Dissected into Atomes melt away To empty ayre, and from the grosse allay Of mixtures, and compounding Accidents Resin'd to immateriall Elements, But when the Queene of Beautie did inspire The ayre with perfumes, and our hearts with fire, Breathing from her celestiall Otgan sweet Harmonious notes, our soules fell at her feet, And did with humble reverend dutie, more Her rare perfections, then high state adore,

These harmelesse pastimes let my Townsend sing To rurall tunes; not that thy Muse wants wing To soare a loftier pitch, for she hath made A noble flight, and plac'd th'Heroique shade Above the reach of our faint flagging ryme; But these are subjects proper to our clyme. Tourneyes, Masques, Theaters, better become Our Halcyon dayes; what though the German Drum Bellow for freedome and revenge, the noyse Concernes not us, nor should divert our joyes; Nor ought the thunder of their Carabins Drowne the sweet Ayres of our tun'd Violins; Beleeve me friend, if their prevailing powers Gaine them a calme securitie like ours, They'le hang their Armes up on the Olive bough, And dance, and revell then, as we doe now.