The death of Captain Archibald Douglas
An extract from 'Instructions to a painter, by Andrew Marvell.
Archibald Douglas died
defending the Royal Oak in 1667. He was about 32 and married,
so a certain amount of poetic licence has been taken!
Not so brave Douglas, on whose lovely chin
The early down but
newly did begin,
And modest beauty yet his sex did veil,
While
envious virgins hope he is a male.
His yellow locks curl back
themselves to seek,
Nor other courtship knew but to his cheek.
Oft, as he in chill Esk or Seine by night
Hardened and cooled his
limbs, so soft, so white,
Among the reeds, to be espied by him,
The nymphs would rustle; he would forward swim.
They sighed and
said, `Fond boy, why so untame
That fliest love's fires, reserved
for other flame?'
Fixed on his ship, he faced that horrid day
And wondered much at those that ran away.
Nor other fear himself
could comprehend
Then, lest heaven fall ere thither he ascend,
But entertains the while his time too short
With birding at the
Dutch, as if in sport,
Or waves his sword, and could he them
conjúre
Within its circle, knows himself secure.
The fatal
bark him boards with grappling fire,
And safely through its port
the Dutch retire.
That precious life he yet disdains to save
Or with known art to try the gentle wave.
Much him the honours of
his ancient race
Inspire, nor would he his own deeds deface,
And secret joy in his calm soul does rise
That Monck looks on to
see how Douglas dies.
Like a glad lover, the fierce flames he
meets,
And tries his first embraces in their sheets.
His shape
exact, which the bright flames enfold,
Like the sun's statue
stands of burnished gold.
Round the transparent fire about him
flows,
As the clear amber on the bee does close,
And, as on
angels' heads their glories shine,
His burning locks adorn his
face divine.
But when in this immortal mind he felt
His
altering form and soldered limbs to melt,
Down on the deck he
laid himself and died,
With his dear sword reposing by his side,
And on the flaming plank, so rests his head
As one that's warmed
himself and gone to bed.
His ship burns down, and with his relics
sinks,
And the sad stream beneath his ashes drinks.
Fortunate
boy, if either pencil's fame,
Or if my verse can propagate thy
name,
Any contributions to this item will be
gratefully accepted
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