Sir Walter Raleigh (1554?–1618). Poems. 1892.
III.An Epitaph upon the Right Honourable Sir Philip Sidney, Knight, Lord Governor of Flushing; 1586
T
And want thy wit,—thy wit high, pure, divine,—
Is far beyond the power of mortal line,
Nor any one hath worth that draweth breath;
And friendly care obscured in secret breast,
And love that envy in thy life suppressed,—
Thy dear life done,—and death hath doubled more.
Did only praise thy virtues in my thought,
As one that seeld the rising sun hath sought,
With words and tears now wail thy timeless fate.
Nor less than such, by gifts that nature gave,—
The common mother that all creatures have,—
Doth virtue show, and princely lineage shine.
That God thee gave,—who found it now too dear
For this base world, and hath resumed it near
To sit in skies, and sort with powers divine.
The heavens made haste, and stayed nor years nor time;
The fruits of age grew ripe in thy first prime;
Thy will, thy words; thy words the seals of truth.
To treat from kings with those more great than kings;
Such hope men had to lay the highest things
On thy wise youth, to be transported hence.
Thy country’s love, religion, and thy friends;
Of worthy men the marks, the lives, and ends,
And her defence, for whom we labour all.
Grief, sorrow, sickness, and base fortune’s might;
Thy rising day saw never woeful night,
But passed with praise from off this worldly stage.
First thine own death; and after thy long fame;
Tears to the soldiers; the proud Castilian’s shame;
Virtue expressed, and honour truly taught.
Young years for endless years, and hope unsure
Of fortune’s gifts for wealth that still shall dure:
O happy race, with so great praises run!
Flanders thy valour, where it last was tried;
The camp thy sorrow, where thy body died;
Thy friends thy want; the world thy virtue’s fame;
Letters thy learning; thy loss years long to come;
In worthy hearts sorrow hath made thy tomb;
Thy soul and spright enrich the heavens above.
Young sighs, sweet sighs, sage sighs, bewail thy fall;
Envy her sting, and spite hath left her gall;
Malice herself a mourning garment wears.
Scipio, Cicero, and Petrarch of our time;
Whose virtues, wounded by my worthless rhyme,
Let angels speak, and heaven thy praises tell.