Carolina, or, Loyal poems by Tho. Shipman, Esq.

The Irish MASSACRE. 1664.

Vpon Captain Robert Sutton's death in Ireland.

BRave Sutton! Drums and Trumpets fit thine Herse More than the slight solemnity of Verse. The Muses Heralds may put up with shame, They are out-sounded by the Trump of Fame. 'Tis fitter far that thou great Mars shouldst have Close Mourner, then Apollo at thy Grave. Thy Martial Steed, with his courageous Neigh, Jostles my Pegasus out of his way. Thy Sword has carv'd out such a lasting Story, My Pen adds nothing to thy full-grown glory.

Here lies a Youth, had but his Stars been kind, Or Fortune equal to his Birth, and Mind; He had brave Sidney, and those Sparks outgone, Who did at thirty all that could be done. But none can limm him right, who have not been Where they might him before his Troop have seen. How he that day made many Dons to fall, When English Swords protected Portugal. Where dying Valour he again reviv'd: Like th' Soul, when to a Body newly 'arriv'd. The lustre that his Arms, and Actions show'd, Like Lightning, darted through the Sulph'ry Cloud. His beauty then, with heat of sight improv'd, Had Venus seen, she Mars no more had lov'd. Yet was he not provoking, nor did watch, Like Tinder, alwaies ready for a Match He rather seem'd like to the hardy Flint, Cold until struck, tho Fire lye dormant in't; Or like a Tempest that is slow to rise. But woe to him, that in its way then lies! This made old gallant Schomberg so admire To find new kindled here his youthful fire; This made him court him every way to own What he that day deserv'd, the Lawrel Crown.

Blind Love! 'twas thou allur'dst him to neglect Bellona's Favours to gain thy respect. Who would believe such Toyes should Sutton move To leave crown'd Victory, and follow Love? The Moral he made good, and, to his cost, Snatch'd at the Shadow, but the Substance lost.

Ill fare those charms! that made him shun the light, For vain Idaeas, only fit for Night! Nor can, nor shall she thrive, but helpless be; False to her self, in being false to thee!

Farewel, brave Soul! the raging Irish Seas Contain not tears enow for thy decease. That rainy Region, though it weep each day, For thy sad loss does but due tribute pay. Ingrateful Ireland! thou hast cost us dear, Committing here a second Massacre.