A Funeral Elegie, Upon the Death of George Sonds, Esq &c. who was killed by his Brother, Mr. Freeman Sonds, August the 7th, Anno Dom. 1655 by William Annand

Reach me a Handcerchiff; Another yet,
And yet another, for the last is wett;
Nay now a Glass, to bottell up my teares,
For present pressing griefs, and future fears.
Could sighs, could groans, could sobbs, or ought revoak,
That sudden, fatal, fearfull, deadly stroak?
The Muses should be summon’d in by force,
And spend their All, upon his wounded Coarse,
Could measur’d lines, griefs infinit display?
The sacred Nine, with Him who rules the Day,
And all who in Immortall Thrones reside;
In spight of greatness, should a charge abide,
To consecrate, and to adorn his Hearse,
Revive his life, and club unto a Verse.
Or then let Sable darkness, canop’d in night,
Eeclipse them all for ever. Here’s a fight
That ripens sorrow, breaks op’ Griefs magazine,
Horrors great store-house—, compass’d in his Shrine,
Of life, of sense, all are dispossest,
And by one Dagger, loe each heart is peirc’d.

Thy death, thy death, dear soul, might wonder move,
How the Old Serpent, thus should kill the Dove.
Thy habits so refulgently did shine,
That we knew ought, but what was thought divine.
In thy expyring, it was made appear
In bloody Wounds, the Trinitie was clear.
The gates through which thy fertil soul did mount
To bless’d aboads, came to the full account
Of Twelve, or four times three, And three
“Hath ever in it some great My steric.

Nor was it for thy good, dear heart,
That Heaven thus suffer’d man to act his part.
But as Gods hand mayd Nature, doth not eye,
Nor this, nor that, but all in part doth spye:
So here God acts, in manner so so ample,
That All may have thee; Alwayes for example
Of this lifes frailty, most stupid here may know,
“There’s no abiding City, here below.
Behold the reaking blood, heart sign’d with murther staines,
Wisdoms great Citadel defac’d, empty veines,
Of one so young, so good, so lov’d of all,
After the closure of a Festivall.
So gentle, modest, rich, discreet and wise,
In dawning of his youth to close his eyes!
None more in Grace, in Speech, in featur,
Destroy’d, ’cause none in Grace, in Speech, was greater.
The best of Sonnes, Heires, Friends, of Masters,
Thus bath’d in his own blood; O sad disasters!
Good God, what can, what shall, mans frailty thinke,
When thy great goodnese, at this Act did winke?
But thou art just, perhaps thou thought’st it sitt,
And Lord unto thy Judgement I submit.

Rest happy Soul above,
with God in Love;
Where malice, hate, is out of date.
Expecting still the end
That Pious souls attend.

Vivet Post funera virtue.

From: Annand, William, A funeral elegie, upon the death of George Sonds, Esq; &c. Who was killed by his brother, Mr. Freeman Sonds, August the 7th. anno Dom. 1655. By William Annand Junior, of Throwligh. Whereunto is annexed a prayer, compiled by his sorrowfull father Sir George Sonds, and used in his family during the life of the said Freeman, 2009, Text Creation Partnership: Ann Arbor, Michigan and Oxford, pp. [unnumbered].
(http://name.umdl.umich.edu/A75368.0001.001)

Date: 1655

By: William Annand (1633-1689)

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: