A Pindarique ode on the death of the Right Honourable Thomas, Earl of Ossory by Thomas Flatman, Esq.

ON THE DEATH Of the Right Honourable THOMAS EARL of OSSORY. Pindariq' Ode.

Stanza. I.

NO more!—Alas that bitter word, No more! The Great, the Just, the Generous, the Kind, The universal Darling of Mankind, The Noble Ossory is now No more! The Mighty Man is fall'n— From Glory's lofty Pinacle; Meanly like one of Us He fell,

Not in the hot pursuit of Victory, As Gallant Men would chuse to dy; But tamely like a poor Plebeian, from his Bed To the dark Grave a Captive led; Emasculating Sighs and Groans around, His Friends in flouds of Sorrow drown'd; His awful Truncheon, and bright Arms laid by, He bow'd his glorious Head to Destiny.

II.

Celestial Powers, how unconcern'd you are? No black Eclipse, or Blazing-Star Presag'd the Death of this Illustrious Man, No Deluge, no, nor Hurricane; In her old wonted course Nature went on, As if some common thing were done, One single Victim to Deaths Altar come, And not in OSSORY an whole Hecatombe. Yet, when the Founder of Old Rome expir'd, When the Pellean Youth resign'd his breath, And when the great Dictator stoop't to Death, Nature and all her Faculties retir'd; Amaz'd she started when amaz'd she saw The breaches of her ancient Fundamental Law Which kept the World in aw;

For men less brave than Him, her very Heart did ake, The labouring Earth did quake, And Trees their fixt Foundations did forsake; Nature in some prodigious way Gave notice of their fatal Day. Those lesser Griefs with pain she thus exprest, This did confound, and overwhelm her Brest.

III.

Shrink ye Crown'd Heads, that think your selves secure, And from your mouldring Thrones look down, Your greatness cannot long endure, The King of Terrors claims you for his own; You are but Tributaries to his dreadful Crown. Renown'd, Serene, Imperial, most August, Are only high and mighty Epithets for Dust. In vain, in vain so high Our tow'ring expectations flie, While th' Blossoms of our hopes, so fresh, so gay, Appear, and promise Fruit, then fade away. From valiant OSSORY'S ever Loyal Hands What did we not believe? We dream't of yet unconquer'd Lands He to his Prince could give, And neighbouring Crowns retrive; Expected that he would in Triumph come Laden with Spoils, and Affrick Banners home,

As if an Hero's years Were as unbounded as our fond Desires.

IV.

Lament, Lament, you that dare Honour love, And court her at a Noble rate (Your Prowess to approve,) That dare religiously upon Her wait, And blush not to be Good, when you grow Great, Such Mourners suit His Vertue, and His State. And you, brave Souls, who for your Country's good Did wond'rous things in Fields, and Seas of Blood, Lament th' undaunted Chief that led you on; Whose exemplary Courage could inspire The most degenerate Heart, with Martial-English Fire. Your bleeding Wounds who shall hereafter dress With an indulgent tenderness; Touch't with a melting Sympathy, Who shall your Wants supply? Since He, your good Samaritan is gone. O Charity! thou richest Boon of Heaven, To Man, in pity given! (For when well meaning Mortals give, The Poor's, and their own Bowels they relieve;) Thou mak'st us with alacrity to Dy, Mis't and bewail'd like Thee large-hearted OSSORY.

V.

Arise ye blest Inhabitants Above, From your Immortal Seats Arise, And on our Wonder, on our Love Gaze with astonish't Eyes. Arise! Arise! make roome, Th' exalted shade is come. See where He comes! what Princely Port He bears! How God-like He appears! His shining Temples round With Wreaths of everlasting Lawrels bound! As from the bloudy Field of Mons He came, Where He out fought th' Hyperbolies of Fame. See how the Guardian Angel of our Isle Receiv's the Deifi'd Champion with a Smile! Welcome the Guardian Angel say's Full of Songs of Joy and Praise, Welcome Thou art to me, And to these Regions of Serenitie! Welcome the Winged Quire resounds, While with loud Euge's all the Sacred Place abounds.

THOMAS FLATMAN.