Aphra Behn(1640?–1689)
On the Death of the Late Earl of Rochester
M o u r n , m o u r n , ye M u s e s , 9 all your loss deplore,
T h e young, the noble S t r e p h o n 1 is no m o r e .
Yes, yes, he fled q u i c k as d e p a r t i n g light,
A n d ne'er shall rise f r o m D e a t h ' s eternal night,
So rich a prize the Stygian2 gods ne'er bore,
S u c h wit, s u c h beauty, never g r a c e d their shore.
He w a s b u t lent this duller world t' improve
In all the c h a r m s of poetry, a n d love;
B o t h were his gift, w h i c h freely he b e s t o w e d ,
A n d like a god, dealt to the wond'ring crowd.
S c o r n i n g the little vanity of f a m e ,
S p i g h t 0 of h i m s e l f attained a glorious n a m e .in spite
B u t oh! in vain was all his peevish3 pride,
T h e s u n as s o o n might his vast luster hide,
As piercing, pointed, and more lasting bright,
As s u f f e r i n g no vicissitudes4 of night.
Mourn, mourn, ye Muses, all your loss deplore,
T h e young, the noble S t r e p h o n is no m o r e .
N o w u n i n s p i r e d u p o n your b a n k s 5 we lie,
U n l e s s w h e n we w o u l d m o u r n his elegy;6
His n a m e ' s a g e n i u s 7 that w o u l d wit d i s p e n s e ,
A n d give the t h e m e a soul, the words a s e n s e .
But all fine thought that ravisht 0 when it spoke,enraptured
W i t h the soft youth eternal leave h a s took;
U n c o m m o n wit that did the soul o ' e r c o m e ,
Is buried all in S t r e p h o n ' s w o r s h i p p e d t o m b ;
Satire has lost its art, its sting is gone,
T h e F o p a n d Cully8 n o w m a y b e u n d o n e ;
T h a t d e a r i n s t r u c t i n g r a g e is n o w a l l a y e d , 0laid down
A n d no s h a r p p e n dares tell 'em h o w they've strayed;
Bold as a god w a s ev'ry lash he took,
B u t kind a n d gentle the chastizing stroke.
Mourn, mourn, ye youths, whom fortune has betrayed,
The last reproacher of your vice is dead.
Mourn, all ye beauties, put your Cyprus9 on,
The truest swain1 that e're adored you's gone;
Think how he loved, and writ, and sighed, and spoke,
Recall his mien, his fashion, and his look.bearing, manner
By what dear arts the soul he did surprise,
Soft as his voice, and charming as his eyes.
Bring garlands all of never-dying flowers,
Bedewed with everlasting falling showers;
Fix your fair eyes upon your victimed slave,
Sent gay and young to his untimely grave.
See where the noble swain extended lies,
Too sad a triumph of your victories;2
Adorned with all the graces Heaven e'er lent,
All that was great, soft, lovely, excellentr
You've laid into his early monument.J
Mourn, mourn, ye beauties, your sad loss deplore,
The young, the charming Strephon is no more.
Mourn, all ye little gods of love,3 whose darts
Have lost their wonted 0 power of piercing hearts;
Lay by the gilded quiver and the bow,
The useless toys can do no mischief now,
Those eyes that all your arrows' points inspired,
Those lights4 that gave ye fire are now retired,
Cold as his tomb, pale as your mother's doves;5
Bewail him then oh all ye little loves,
For you the humblest votary 0 have lostdevoted worshiper
That ever your divinities could boast;
Upon your hands your weeping heads decline,
And let your wings encompass round his shrine;
In stead of flowers your broken arrows strow, 0scatter about
And at his feet lay the neglected bow.
Mourn, all ye little gods, your loss deplore,
The soft, the charming Strephon is no more.
Large was his fame, but short his glorious race,
Like young Lucretius6 lived and died apace.quickly
So early roses fade, so over all
They cast their fragrant scents, then softly fall,
While all the scattered perfumed leaves declare,
How lovely 'twas when whole, how sweet, how fair.
Had he been to the Roman Empire known,
W h e n great A u g u s t u s 7 filled the p e a c e f u l throne;
H a d h e the noble w o n d rous p o e t seen,8
A n d k n o w n his g e n i u s , a n d surveyed his mien,
( W h e n wits, a n d h e r o e s g r a c e d divine a b o d e s ) ,
H e h a d i n c r e a s e d the n u m b e r o f their g o d s ;
The royal judge 9 had temples rear'd to's name,to his
A n d m a d e him as i m m o r t a l as his f a m e ;
In love a n d verse his Ovid he'ad1 out-done,
A n d all his laurels, a n d his J u l i a 2 won.
M o u r n , m o u r n , u n h a p p y world, his loss deplore,
T h e great, the c h a r m i n g S t r e p h o n is no m o r e .