S r Nathaniel Barnardiston of Ketton in Suff. K t Obiit A. D. 1653 [...]t 66. F. H. van. Houe Sculp.

SƲFFOLKS Tears: OR ELEGIES On that Renowned Knight Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston. A Gentleman eminent for Piety to God, love to the Church, and fidelity to his Country; and therefore Highly honored by them all. He was Five times chosen Knight of the Shire, for the County of Suffolk, and once Burgess for Sudbury. In the discharge of which Trust, he always approved Himself Faithful; as by his great sufferings for the Freedoms and Liberties of his Countrey, abundantly appear. A Zealous Promoter of the Preaching of the Gospel, manifested by his great care, in presenting Men, Able, Learned, and Pious, to the places whereof he had the Patronage; and also by his large and extraordinary bounty towards the advancing of Religion and Learning, both at home, and in Forreign Plantations among the Heathen.

Dignum laude virum Musa vetat Mori.

London, Printed by R. I. for Tho. Newberry at the Three Lions in Cornhil, near the Royal Exchange. 1653.

To the VVorshipful and highly honou­red Lady, the Lady Jane Barnardiston. An Offertory.

THrice Noble Lady, spare that melting Bead,
Our sorrows want no jewel from your head;
Still let those silver drops, that lightly lye
Like little delug'd worlds within your eye;
Fixed abide in their own brightest sphear,
His fame wants not those pendents for her ear;
Those falling stars rob heaven, we need not thence
Borrow our griefs, or taxe you with expence:
Behold how every Mourner brings his sheet
To wipe your eyes, and weep himself; 'tis meet
That this so publick loss by th' Countries charge
Should mourned be: Spare, Madam, then: this large
And thicker Volume that is here annext,
Is but our Comment on that publick text:
Come Argus, Hieraclicus, lend your eyes
To pay on's tomb a liquid sacrifice;
Lo all the grasse that round about him lye,
Hangs full of tears shed from Dame Natures eye,
See how sad Philomele (that yonder sits,
And to the dancing twig her musick fits)
[Page] Now mourns for him, the silver brook runs on,
Grumbling to leave those loved banks, whereon
A Mansion once he had; that's now set round
With Cypress trees, and with their branches crown'd;
So dark, it seems Nights mantle for to borrow,
And may be cal'd, the gloomy den of sorrow.
E're since he di'd; the Heavens their griefs to tell,
Daily in tears to earth's wet bosome fell;
Not in an April storm, or those in June,
Whose trembling Cadents makes it rain in tune;
But like a grave Decembers day, or those
Who mourn in Cicero's stile, and weep in prose.
Madam, you see all Natures wat'ry store
Attends this sable day, weep you no more;
Angels, that on your eyes with bottles wait
To catch your falling tears, do now retreat
With vessels full; anon again they'l stoop,
And lightly hover round the mourning troop,
Whilst I in silence do his Shrine adore;
If worship doth offend, I then implore,
And crave a favour, Madam, 'tis this one,
Adde to his memory no pictur'd stone;
Lest whilst within the Church my vows I pay,
I to the Image of this Saint should pray.
Madam,
your most humble and faithful servitor: Samuel Faireclough. Jun.

[Page 1]ELEGIES ON That renowned Knight SIR Nathaniel Barnardiston.

AN Acrosticke Elegie on my ever Ho­noured Friend Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston, who faithfully in all imployments served his Country, was renowned for Piety, and ex­emplary in Religion, dyed the 25. of July, 1653.

SHal such Friends dye, and my Muse idle bee?
Is't possible? can such stupidity
Remaine in me, and I not dead with thee?
[Page 2] Nature don't give, but lend its life to men,
And at its pleasure cals it back agen.
The image grav'd on man, Gods right doth shew,
His image 'tis; let Caesar have his due.
And in this Microcosme we plainly see
No lesse then part of Gods Divinity,
In smaller letters; for the Soul's a sparke
Even of his kindling, and (though in the dark
Lodg'd in the grave, the body seems to be)
Let's hope, and we shal find re-unity.
Body and Soul shal joyn by heaven's great power
As once they were, before the parting hour:
Rally the Atomes shal, and then each part
Not loosing ought, by Gods Almighty Art
Attaine shal to its just and proper due,
Returning to each corps its former hue;
Descend then shal the Soul, and with a kisse
Its ancient friend awake to perfect bliss:
So these new married couple joyfully
To heaven ascend, and match eternity.
Oheavenly Musick! endlesse harmony!
None can desire to live, that's fit to dye.
So slept our former Patriots (when they
Had serv'd their country) in a bed of clay;
Flesh may incinerate, when Man doth dye,
The body in the grave may sleeping lye;
But there's a spark remaines, which shal return,
And re-inform those ashes in their urn,
VVhich when the last days morning shal draw nigh,
Shal raise its flame by heav'nly Chymistry:
So springs the Phoenix, from which Rise
She's ever cal'd the Bird of Paradise.
Si quis; qui bonus, & pius est? inquirit; Iësus
Respondet, verus Nomine Nathaniel.
Inquire whose good? Christ wil thee tel,
It is a true Nathaniel.
WILLIAM SPRING Barronet.

An Elegie containing a Dialogue between the Author and his Muse, and between Death and an Angel.

MAke hast my Muse,
The Author to his Muse.
lay off thy brighter plume,
The sable wings of darkest Night assume,
Cover thy head with blackness, do not faile
Thy brow with mournful shadow now to vaile;
Thine eyes now cloud, which may pour down apace,
A showre of brinish tears upon thy face.
Fill up thy breast with sighs, and saddest grief,
With Rachels sorrows, that refu'd relief;
Now let a living Spring thy sorrow feed,
That may supply, with running streams, thy need:
The depth in silence pass, noyse not the same
Lest Nature hear, and do dissolve her frame;
Attire thy self in saddest mourning weed,
Put on thy tragick Buskins, haste with speed
Unto the place where griesly Death doth dwel,
The house of death.
Within the ground in lowest darkest cel;
Pale kercher'd sickness lyeth at the door,
To him the Porter openeth every hour.
About, above, the Monuments remaine,
Of old and young whom direfull death hath slaine:
There the worlds Victor vanquished doth lye,
There Caesar, Croesus, and grave Cato by;
There David, Jedidiah, Daniel,
And there with these our true Nathaniel.
Of doleful Ebony the Portal's made,
The roof of fatal dismal Ewe is laid,
The pillars of black pollisht Marble be,
That may endure til time you ended see;
The wals intire of Adamantine rock,
The two-leav'd gates of Steel, so key and lock.
The chambers there with Coffins plancherd sure,
Corruptions sap wil not let long indure;
These worn and torn, in time renew'd again,
The cost of future Funerals maintain:
The lower floor's of earth, most rooms be ful,
Loe here the dead mens bones, and there the skul.
The trophies of triumphant Death are there,
The rooms all hung with whited linnen are;
The corps intomb'd with juyce of Poppy smear'd,
There rest and sleep in dust, no danger fear'd,
Till that these bodies, putrifactions prey,
Be raised up to life at the last Day.
The way is beaten to this house of Death,
A description of Death.
The fatal enemie of Mortals breath.
A raw-bon'd carcase, of his Head the haire
And flesh is falne, and left the skul all bare;
His eyes no eyes, cannot be seen not see,
Worm-eaten nose, one jaw, no teeth hath he:
Yet heaps of men he daily doth devour,
And hundreds fall before him in an hour.
Within his cruel breast he hath no heart,
Yet full of courage, and with deadly dart
He kils, yet neither arm he hath, nor hand,
He hath no feet, yet walks o're sea and land.
Nor arteries, flesh, nor sinews (wonder)
Hath he, all his joynts they are asunder;
His bones, there one, and here another lyes,
He smites, there one, and here another dyes;
Haste thither, knock, call, know the cause, why thus
This leane starv'd Heluo snatcht our joy from us.
Could sacred Piety,
The Muses message and complaint to Death, lamen­ting the death of this worthy
that adorn'd his mind,
The grace of heart and life, no pitty finde?
Wilt thou thus wrong (oh death) the Publick weale?
And justice slay, extinguish fervent zeal!
Pull down the Temples pillar, quench the fire
That Heaven's sent, and did to Heaven aspire?
Could neither faith nor faithfulness find grace?
Nor friendly love keep off thy Serjeants Mace?
Could not integrity and truth him save
(With Hezekiah) from the greedy grave?
O Sun return, yet shine on Sions hil,
On Ahaz Dial keep the shadow stil.
Why fel he not upon Elisha's herse,
That could the dead againe to life reverse?
Where is He now that Lazarus did raise?
Where is the widow of Sarepta's praise,
That might in flaming Chariot let him ride
With him to heaven? then he had not dy'd.
Shal I not once within this vale of tears?
(Or shal I hold my peace, not speak my fears?)
Shal I not once again on earth behold
That countenance so grave, so brave, so bold,
Which with a look could daunt the face of sin,
And make offence to hide it selfe with in?
Shal I not see his presence? blesse the wals,
Wherein did sound his frequent sacred cals,
Of wife and children, and of all the rest,
To waite on God; who is for ever blest,
And beams of blessing from this Sunt' expect
That blest these blessings, might on him reflect.
And as the Rivers to the Ocean pay
Their tribute streams, that in their channel play;
So daily Prayer answerers re-ascend
In praises might to God, and never end:
O never end your prayers and praises due,
To him that gave such sweet returns to you.
That you should pray, and yet stil praise his name,
And walk in right before him without blame;
So did he walk, and so attended went
VVith all his traine: and in the Temple spent
Both hours and dayes, and of all dayes the best,
VVherein both Christ did rise, and God did rest.
The time though divers, yet the precept's one,
Writ and ingrav'd by Gods own hand in stone,
In midst of that his everlasting Law,
VVhich might at all time keep in dreadful awe
All hearts, and all induce, his voyce with feare,
And faithful care, and conscience to heare.
Oh! shal I never more observe that eye,
Intently lifted up unto the skie?
And hands stretcht out unto the throne of grace,
And bended knees to fall before the place,
VVhere shadowing Cherub cover'd with his wing,
The Mercy-seat of heavens mighty King?
From Golden Altar did the incense fly
In clouds of smoke, and mounted up on high:
God smelt the savour, in his heart he said,
Behold, it's done according as thou pray'd.
And now O death, can thee no prayer melt,
Wherein the highest God such sweetness smelt?
Release thy Prisoner, and set o'pe thy gate,
Breake off those fetters, free thy selfe from hate,
And let him rise from off that fatall bed
VVhereon thou forc'd him to lay down his head:
Vnto the votes of high and low restore
Their joy, to be enjoyed as before.
VVhat aylest thou,
Deaths answer [...] to the Muse.
O Muse, bereft of mind?
VVhat mean these words, these empty puffes of wind?
VVil't change the Fates, and burn the sacred rowl
Of Gods Decree, and make thy selfe a scroul;
There to designe each one to death or life,
And heaven and earth to set at dismal strife?
Shal brazen mountains with a blast remove?
Or shal the Sun run retrograde above?
Shal morning o'pe her purple door i'th VVest?
And Moon and Stars to rule the day be prest?
And night shine forth with Phoebus orient beams?
And at thy will all rivers change their streams?
Then my Commission I to thee Wil give,
The living shal not dye, the dead shal live;
And mortals all, immortal shal become,
And wither'd branch, with winter blast shal bloome;
And Adam shal with Eve to Eden go,
No fruit shal kil, no friend shal be a foe.
But if that Adam must no more return,
Why should I break up Barnardistons urn?
His faith? so Abraham dy'd, yet did beleeve;
But Truth did Hezekiah once reprive,
And Lazarus did life againe inspire,
And to his body did the soul retire:
But know'st thou not how these of death did taste?
And back again unto my Palace haste?
Nor Abrams faith, nor Isaacks, Jacobs feare
Could sheild them from deaths deadly piercing speare;
So Joseph, Joshua, and Josiah all,
By sooner, later stroakes of death did fall.
And Job was patient under death's sad blow,
And mighty Sampson unto death did bow;
And David with his Worthies all did yeeld
To death, against his stroke they found no shield;
And John, Christs bosome friend, did hither hye,
And Christ himselfe, the Son of God, did dye;
Eliah left his Mantle him behind,
They sought him, but in no place could him find,
His change like death; and Enoch he is not,
Nor Rachels children, Death became their Lot.
And thou (O Muse) shal be as one of these,
When Atropos thy thread to cut shal please.
O cruel Death!
The Muses re­ply to death.
can nothing then asswage
Thy savage fury, and thy direful rage?
Must all (O Charon) thee thy ferriage pay?
And all take Boat, and all have over-lay?
Then come, and to our Lazarus let us go,
And as he dy'd, with him, let us do so.
As Joseph went unto old Jacobs grave,
So shal this Saint, of us attendance have.
What mean'st ( O Muse) and whither dost thou wend?
The Angels message to the Muse.
When of thy passion wilt thou make an end?
Wilt thou presume on Sion Mount to stand,
And Heavens scepter sway in thy right hand?
The Lord by power and providence divine,
Did all unto their place and end assigne:
The Earth to Plants, in Seas the Fishes swim,
The Birds in th' air do wave their feathers trim;
Shal not the fixed Stars in heaven shine?
What God doth own, wilt thou detain as thine?
And why among the dead dost thou enquire
For these that live?
A description of Heaven.
lift up thy eye, look higher,
There is a place beyond that mount most bright,
Whence Phoebus chariot shines with flaming light;
The stately City new Jerusalem,
Wherein doth dwel Jehovah, God of Shem.
Her glory doth as Jasper stone appear,
Her light like to transparent Chrystal clear;
Her battlements are high, her streets are gold,
Her gates twelve glittering Pearls, their price untold,
Twelve holy Angels at the gate attend,
Whereon twelve names of Israels tribes are pend.
The gates, all nightless day, stand open wide,
That Saints in golden charriots in may ride.
Three where the Sun doth shed his orient beam,
Three ope where he doth loose his fiery team,
Three from the North receive Christs holy train,
Three from the South that Saints do entertain.
The twelve foundations, each a precious stone,
The Jasper, Saphir, and the Chalcedon,
The Sardonix of colour red and white,
The Sardius next, and golden Chrysolite,
The sea-green Beril, and the Topaz rare,
Chrysoprasus as gold with green most faire;
The Jacynth then, and next to that is set
The Amethyst like purple violet,
In those the names of Christs, Apostles are,
That through the world the Gospel spread so farre.
On those an hundred fourty cubits height▪
And four, the wal so broad, of Jasper bright.
Four square the City, and the measur'd ground
With golden read a thousand furlongs found;
The Angel so the length and breadth did take,
The height the same no Cannon great can shake
The wall, that doth this City compasse in,
VVhere none can enter, nor abide with sin.
No need of Temple, Sun,
The Saints glo­ry and happi­ness, and this Saint among them.
or Moon there is,
VVhere dwels that Trine in one, in endless bliss,
The Lamb his everlasting light doth give
Unto it, there the Saints in glory lives
Upon their heads, they Crowns of glory wear,
Their faces like the radiant Sun appear.
They cloathed are in Linnen sins and pure,
No Fuller ever made the like, 'tis sure:
And Palms of victory in their hands they have,
Triumphant Trophies, on the wal most brave
Do hang the Monuments of conquer'd Hel,
VVith all the Fiends and Furies, there that dwel;
Their Crowns and Palms before the Lamb they cast,
By whom the danger of the war they past;
They all bedight with glory, round about
The Lambe doe follow, going in and out,
Unto the tree of lasting life they haste,
In midst of Eden, and the fruit they taste.
Thence to the Wel of Life they take their way,
VVhence living streams do never cease to play;
VVith Mannah eke, and sweetest Nectar fed,
They, by the Lamb, into the Palace led;
The Song of Moses and the Lamb doe sing,
VVith sweetest harmony to heavens King.
In close hereof came Barnardiston in,
VVho late the field from vertues foe did win:
A troop of Angels blest had been his guard,
Into the Palace, to a place prepar'd:
VVherein the Emerauld of virld hue,
For beauties honour strives with Saphir blew:
And Topaz seeks to have away the fame
From Carbuncle, that shines with fiery flame.
There he arrayed in the robes of glory,
Had to the presence Chamber, tels the story,
How he in fight with Sin and Death had stood,
[Page 12] And overcame them by the Lamb, Christ's blood:
The Lamb my Captain was, I won the field,
Lo there his Word my Sword, his faith my shield.
The Angels then did all their Trumpets blow,
The Victor's blessed welcome there to show;
The Lord commands a crown of golden Bayes,
Vpon his head are set the Victors praise.
The Saints afresh renew their happy joy,
Them neither sin nor sorrow doth annoy.
Moses and Aaron, sang the same that was
By Israel sung, when they the Sea did passe;
And Miriam did on sounding Timbrel play,
And David tuned to his Harp a Lay:
The rest took hands, and danc'd a sacred round,
The vaults of glory echoing did sound,
There did I leave him, there in bliss he lives,
VVith him, to Saints that grace and glory gives.
Go haste, and tell all those that did him love,
How he sits on a golden Throne above;
On earth he in his hand a sword did bear,
His hand in heaven doth a scepter rear:
There shal he always live, and never dye,
And there shal waite on highest Majesty;
And waite to see his Wife and Children dear
Increase his joy, in this his glories sphear.
The Lord we pray, there grant to them a place,
VVith their allyes, and to their budding race.
In eundem carmen funebre, comprehensum
In Dialogo inter Musam & Vitam.
Tene quid abripiet nobis?
M.
(mors improba!) mortem
Tu (que) premes, victam tu perimes (que) necem.
Vita fugis mortem? meditaris morte fugamne?
Vivas, ut mortem morte fugare queas.
Dum vixi,
V.
vitam viveham, ut perdere possem:
Dum morior mihimet, reddita vita mihi.
Christopher. Burrell. Rec. Wratten Mag.

An Elegie upon the death of that truly noble Gentleman, famous for Piety and Religion, the right Worship­full Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston, Aug. 25. 1653.

THou stately Top-bough of a noble Stem,
One of Gods Jewels, and thy Country's Gem,
That help'd to bless the Land wherein thou wast
Lately a Saint: but now those joyes are past;
And we in sorrows left, with hearts most sad,
To think we'ave lost that blisse we lately had
In thee (Great Sir:) alas, we're now without
A thousand comforts, that from thee dealt out
But lately were, to us, and to all men,
VVith whom thou had'st to do; how shal my Pen
Be able to set out to th' world that worth,
That was in thee? or who can warble forth
Thy praises due? or to the life, let's see,
[Page 14] What by thy death we 'ave lost, in loosing thee?
What rarest Oratour, or Poet can
Set forth the use, or losse of such a man?
Thou blessed Soul; the Model of perfection,
Guilelesse Nathaniel, winner of affection:
Belov'd of God and Man; why didst thou dye,
And leave thy friends nought but an Elegie▪
Could'st thou but hear our plaints, but hear our groans,
But see our mournful tears, and know what moans
Are utter'd here, sigh'd, shed, and made for thee,
Th' ould'st pity's all, if thy felicity
Could give thee leave, but in that place thou art,
Where sorrow's shadow cannot reach thy heart;
VVhere thou hast good of all sorts, plenteous store,
And joy at Gods right hand for evermore.
There rest ( blest Saint) thy soul in heavens high story,
Until the dust th'ast left shal rise to glory.
But shall I thus have done? how can it be?
To leave already such a Saint as he;
To say no more of such a Son of Grace
Then hath been said of him, were to dispraise
Him; so shal I, when I have spent my store,
VVhat I can say, wil be too [...]at, too poore:
Could I but chant out now, such notes as he
Doth in Heavens Quite, before the blessed three;
I'de tel his praises, i'de declare his fame
To after Ages, i'de make known his name;
An uncorrupted Patron that did hate
Out of the Churches means, t' augment his state
He look'd upon it as abhorred thrift,
To gaine t' himselfe a farthing by the gift
Of any Benefice, though he had those,
VVhich if that others had such to dispose,
They would have worm'd and scru'd out two or three
[Page 15] Hundreds of pounds, and yet have faeid how free
Have I been to my Clerk? I did present
Him to some hundred pounds: but yet in Cent'
Gat fifty to himselfe; God never mean
It should be so, which thing this Saint knew wel,
And loath'd such baseness as he loathed hel.
He was a Benefactor to our Tribe,
VVe freely had his boones, he scorn'd our bribe.
If he were now, whence once he was ejected,
(To heare Petitions from the ill-affected,
Begging of men in power to haste, and ply
The begg'ring of the godly Ministry,
By stripping them of means, and maintenance,
And 'th other honour due; good countenance,
That God allows them, and hath given command,
That no man openly, or under-hand
Should rob them of it, or with-hold their due)
He would have hated to have prov'd untrue
To truth, or them; loathing ill-gotten pelfe,
And would have kept them up; or faln himself.
And not by seeking theirs have ruin'd those,
Gods faithful servants, which himself hath chose,
Gifted, and sent dispencers of his minde
To them that sat i'th dark with eyes-ful blind;
And God hath bless'd their pains; maugre her's spight,
And brought them out of darkness into light;
Yea to their calling God hath set his seal,
Their people their Epistle are, and weale
Of many Souls, through grace, effected by
Their faithful Labours in their Ministry.
I trust our Worthies now in power wil stand
Strong for the Truth, and Gospel in the Land,
Preach'd and profess'd, and maugre all our scorners,
Preserve us, that we fly not into corners,
[Page 16] VVhere pining souls their Teachers cann [...] see,
So starve and dye through Romish policy.
Those that have gotten any Gospel good
From Preachers lips, must love them; though none stood
For them, and their incouragement, but they
Wil chuse to dye before they'l e're give way
To throw them down, and Heachenize the Nation,
Knowing 'twil prove Religions extirpation.
They'l lend no eare in this corrupted time,
To them wh'ould make the Word a cover-crime.
But whither runs my pen? my Muse return,
And fall again to mourning o're the urn
Of this desceased Saint, whose losse is such,
Thousands we might have lost, yet not so much
As we have lost in thee, blest soul, on ground
Say, where is such another to be found?
Where's such an Husband? Father? Friend? or Brother?
A word of comfort; say, where's such another
Patron? a Saint so good? just? meek? so kinde?
So self-denying? such an heavenly minde?
His husbanding his time, so godly spent,
Told me h' was bound for heav'n before he went.
Since he's commenc'd above, and got his grace,
VVe cannot leave him in a better place.
Yet one word more give leave for, e're I 'ave done,
Much honour'd Lady, you his eldest Sonne;
Yee children all, who put to't, would much rather,
Have chose the losse of all, then of your Father.
Let sorrows surges sink, let comfort come,
And joy your sad and heavie hearts; make roome
For gladness, know ye 'ave mourn'd your shares,
Your deare is gone to glory, stay your tears.
Yee see what God hath done, and who may have
Like liberty to take, as he that gave?
[Page 17] Submit to God, bear Christianly this Crosse,
He can restore you manifold your losse.
Madam, take comfort, and trust God to be
A better Husband to you farre, then He,
And to your vertuous Daughters, widows left,
Both, like your selfe, of Husbands late bereft;
Not only Husband, but of Father too,
To you and yours, thus doth the Promise go.
Worthy Sir Thomas, now, great God expects
In you such graces, from you such effects,
As in, and from your blessed Father were,
Take care, herein you truly prove his heir;
My prayers for yee all shal be this rather,
God make ye better, then your Gracious Father.
‘Loquitur post funera virtus.’
Ro. Cooke.

An Elegie on that eminently religious Knight, Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston.

STay (Reader) stay, stand, but a while, and see
The dismal face of this sad obsequie
Where all are Mourners, where you'd think you spy
A Son or Daughters tear in every eye.
Hark, Reader, hast thou ever seen what Grace,
What Majesty was seated in his face?
Then bow before his shrouded head, and know
What honour's due, where age white hairs did snow;
Where vertue, where a noble minde did dwel,
Which nothing can ( beside its self) excel.
[Page 18] Democritus himselfe, should he but know
What caus'd these tides of tears to over [...]flow,
The watrish humour in his eye (I feare)
Would melt the Chrystaline into a tear.
Reader, first pay a tear, and then passe on,
'Tis no dry subject we are now upon:
But hold, God too wil have his harvest free
From rainy showres of tears, as wel as we:
This full-ear'd Wheat of his, first bow'd its head,
So gather'd was to's Garner with the dead.
Apostrophe ad defunctum:
Blest Shade, your pardon, that thus late my verse,
In black and white attends your sacred herse;
My Muse was fondly loath, I must confess,
To mixe with sables in an English dresse;
Thought that too homely, wanton; did desire
A persick, Syriak, Arabick attire,
Or any more exotick; Parrots seek
A Caesars favour in no lesse then Greek:
Pardon her soft-pac'd measures, her delayes,
She in sad broken Accents sighing sayes:
Should sundry Tongues, each with a diverse tone
Lament our loss, all must consent in one.
Write on the weeping Marble, here doth lye,
Mecaenas, and the Muses Deity.
Sic flevit, Gulielm. Stephenson.

Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston, his Hallelujah,

Saint.
THrice holy Lord, at thy right hand I see
The Incense pillars up ascending be
From thy most precious bloud, on which doth lye
The Roose, and hang the Pavement of this high
And glorious Court, by them brought up I stand
Before thy face, expecting thy command.
Almighty.
Drop of my selfe, eternally my Dear,
(Distance away) draw to this bosome near;
Lo here, thy elder Brother, did'st not long
To see thy Jesus? seest thou not the throng
Of crowned Saints about thee, that rejoyce
To joyn thee to their Chore, who with their voyce,
My everlasting praise do sing? this sphear
Of Ravishment, that doth thee circle here▪
The native heat is of thy Fathers brest,
From whence when first thou sparkled'st I thee blest,
VVith my unknown delight, and love; to me,
Thou art not strange, but from eternity
Thou always present wert▪ behold thy name
Deeply in-laid upon the Covenant frame
Of my Free Grace, that Archive Archy-type▪
And Index of this Court, the first grand Pipe,
Conveighing down my love unto my Son,
Through him, and all his Gospel veins, to run
Into th' elect, those Gulphs of love; find'st not
My half beleeved Gospel true? thy Lot▪
Does it not fill thy heart, fulfill my Oath?
Doe I delude the sons of men, when loath
[Page 20] To mind or love me, I them wooe, and pray
To daine acceptance of me, that they may
Be wel, and pleased here? doe I deserve
That slight and scorn, that dust and ashes serve
Me daily with? the Leprous scales of sin,
Have they more weight of joy then what's within
The spangles of thy Crown? which of the two,
The lower wilderness of thorns and woe,
Or this eternal gallery of love
VVould'st chuse thy walk? these prospects here above,
And not Lusts snakie Groves true pleasure yeelds:
Earths sence-inspiring glances in May-fields
Cause but an ulcerous Ich; those leaps of sprite
Men think they feel in earthly loves delight,
Are here indeed the souls eternal dance,
Rais'd by the dartings of my countenance;
Look and be ravish'd, spring, and sing my Dove,
Tuning thy measures to my eye of love.
Saint.
How low's this Chore? how Faint's this eccho here?
Is this th' Almighties praise that now I heare?
Can the thousand thousands raise no higher?
Jehovah, thy acceptance I admire:
Is all the powers of Saints and Angels joyn'd
Beneath thy love, and glory thus confin'd?
(O love thy selfe, my God) were this a place,
Tears should reflect thy beams upon my face:
Canst thou not make a Temple higher roof'd,
wherein on louder Organs may be prov'd
The Art of treble-voiced Seraphims,
Joyn'd with deep Accent of wing'd Cherubims?
But neither I, nor these, alas can raise
Ought else but love; Lord reckon that thy praise.
And I am glad th'art great beyond our songs,
[Page 21] Because we feel thee good, beyond our Tongues,
And since thou smil'st to hear thy Nurc'ry sing,
In broken Notes, their Fathers name, I'll bring
My Jews-Trump to thy set: Chore let us joyn:
Saint and Chore.
All might and power, transcendant Lord, is thine,
Above thy Creatures thoughts, thy glory is:
Their utmost stretch, can give to thee no bliss,
Yet 'tis their joy, and everlasting gain,
That they to sing thy praise, their spirits strain.
Thou canst have but their all, their all they spend
Upon thy Throne, yet neither waste or end.
O blest be thou, thou self-arisen Sun
Of Light and Love; from whence hath ever run
Beams both of Life and good, thickning to Globes
And Worlds: This Heaven of Saints is but the Robes
Of Rayes about thee; thou Eternal Spring
(In which th'rising streams, most sweetly sing)
Of Life and Love, and Joy, of Good and Right;
From whence we flow, and whither thou invite
Thy Channels to return; there are we well,
And not to be in thee, is lowest Hell.
All might of love be to thy Spirit given,
Who least we should by Hellish winds be driven
Into the gulf of woe, didst with us mix,
And ran along our wavering course, to fix
On thee Life's Ocean. Fruits of that love
Now in our Center we do taste and prove.
Our life is thine, O lovely God and Man,
The wonder of thy death, who of us can
Half comprehend, much less repay. But see
The goodly Off-spring of thy Blood, and be
Self-satisfi'd, while we behold thy Face
Fill'd with delight, rejoyce thou in the Grace
[Page 22] Thy Blood hath sprinkled round about thy Throne,
Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Three in One.
His Character.
Most perfect Image of the God above,
Without was Majesty, within was love:
One drawn with sweetness by an Infants hand,
Ne'r driv'n by violence, or Base command:
Religion's Patron, Crown of Piety
Upon his Houses Ancient Chevalry.
To Lawful Senates, was his Countrys choice,
The last dissolv'd, above he gives his voice.
To a wise and beauteous Lady joyn'd,
Into a gen'rous Off-spring Both are twin'd.
He went not hence, till he might clearly see
Himself in's Heir, should much exalted be.
His Votaries Prayer.
O let no Curse, no Sin, no Fate, no War,
His long-lin'd house, e'er blot, defame, or scar.
But let its numerous seed, still run along,
Till it receive Christ's coming, with a Song.
The Gentries Vertues, Glories let it wear;
But all its Vices, let it scorn to bear.
His House a School of worth, let ages see;
And Lord, a Church of Graces, let it be.
Richard Fairclough Rector of Mells in Sommersetshire.

To the Memory of that Highly Noble, and Religious Knight Sir NATH. BARNARDISTON.

PArdon great Sir, though others to your Tomb,
Bring Volumes of your praise, and I be dumb.
A Verse or two is all I can; not want
Of sorrow, but the greatness makes me scant.
I cannot write, Tears make my Paper sink;
My Pen weeps too, its proper tears of Ink.
These, whil'st I strive to Checker my white sheet,
Correct my Error, and tell me 'tis meet
That all be black, that every part should mourn,
And so my sheet into a pall they turn.
How can I make a Verse, who want my Feet?
Rooted I stand, amazed at the great,
And strangness of our loss, sad Niobs fate
Transform'd to stone, is mine, incorporate
I to a quarry am; Then take from me
His Monument, his Grave-stone I will be;
And so for ever, I upon my Brest
Shal wear this Epitaph, and weep the rest.

Epitaph.

Here lies those Sacred Ashes, once the seat
Of Heav'n-born-fires, and Loves diviner heat.
No Basket-Justice, or Brib'd Committee,
No purged Senator, but all Purity.
In's Consort happy, both in Off-spring Crown'd:
Birth made him noble, Piety renown'd.

Anagram. Nathaniell Barnardiston. Born in an All-sainted Hart.

How well All Saints, give honor to his Urn,
Whose Faith was in An Hart All-sainted Born.
The World's unworthy of him, whose best part,
Liv'd, and was Born in an All-Sainted Hart.
Nathaniell Fairclough Rector of Stalbridge in Dorcetshire.

PARENTALE, or an ELEGIE on the Highly Honorable and Right Wor­shipful Sir Nath. Barnardiston, Kt.

BY Euphrat's Floud, when Captive Israel sate,
Increasing it; their Harps inanimate
Hung speechless by: All sorrows want their Tongues,
These Organs speak not, fill'd from sighing Lungs.
Great anger makes a Poet; but the sense
Of greatest grief, stops flowing eloquence:
Who groans in tune, hath learn't the Hebrew art
To weep with th' eye; but bleed not at the heart.
My Theam's too great, that Pegasus should wear
Such straitning Fetters; he can't mount the air,
Or soar aloft, whil'st pinion'd is his Wing.
England lies here; your boundless tears then bring,
[Page 25] And Mote it round; let every weeping eye
Now pay its River, till the Springs be dry;
Then offer them: Galatian tribute here
Is due, he payes an eye, that hath no tear.
The Academy, Country, Church, at once,
Have lost their cheifest Patron, and thus groans.
Erst while I saw a Spring ('twas Hippocrene)
Brim'd round about with Sable Jet, within
The waters swell'd; and past their common bounds:
Strait I drew near, t'observe, and search the grounds
Of this late Floud; and silently I spy'd
The Orphan Muses by; all sadly cry'd:
And as they wept, the dewy tears that fell,
Slid to that watry lodge, which made it swell;
Their Patrons death (Apollo) caus'd this wo,
Which falling beads now tell; a wrinkled O
From every fall, their griefs in water wrote,
And spake the sadness of their sighing note.
The common people next, dismaid with fears,
Dewing their Bosoms; thus fills all our ears.
Swift Time (Heavens Pursevant) straitly summons
To th' Lords House, this Member of the Commons;
Thrice chosen Senator, let Ipswich fame
How oft her streets have eccho'd with his Name;
But cruel dint of death's severer Dart
Suffolks great Soul, from Suffolk now doth part.
Nor mourns the State alone; the Churches chime;
Religion sighs; her trickling tears keeps time
Whil'st sobbing thus, she sings, Here lies the Knight,
Lifeless, that did maintain the Gospels Light.
Let Ketton boast; how from her sacred Hill,
Her Sun with brightest Rayes, the World doth fill;
Here fix'd by him: O joyful, Heavenly meet
Of thousands, Sainted by his means; that greet
[Page 26] His crowned head, whose Crown they are, then haste
We too, to add more gems, and be so plac'd.
SA. FAIRECLOVGH. Fel. of Gon. and Caius Coll.

An Elegie on that ever honoured Knight, Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston.

NOt for to scrape acquaintance with the great,
Much lesse, like some, to get a good meals meat;
Not that my stranger Muse strives to be known,
As if she thought sh' were else as good be none:
A mourning Ribband, or a parie of Gloves,
Can nothing tempt her from that rest she loves?
My Muse is no such hackney, none of these
Can draw her from her now accustom'd ease;
Nor doth she now (as earst) catch after wit,
And hap'ly sometimes had the praise of it.
In part, She mindes her selfe, now cal'd away,
From lighter studies, to a graver way;
In part, she thinks 'mongst Country Clowns to rise
In straines of wit, were but to solaecise.
Partly her wil's in fault, and may be too,
Though she were ne're so willing, 'twould not doe.
Chiefly, my Muse puts on so grave a dresse,
Because th' occasion cals for seriousnesse.
And now she speaks, she doth not meane to raise
A Trophie to his name from's father's praise:
Though here (if Ancestry must have a place)
She knows no ancienter, no nobler race.
Those who have nought to brag of, but the glory
Of their fore-fathers, blot their fathers story.
[Page 27] I'de put the Ape, and such men both together,
That could be proud of borrow'd Peacocks feather.
But here no sluggishnesse did make a seat
Of Grandsires glory, there to sit compleat;
But he made what he found left by his Sire
But as his foot-stool, that should raise him higher.
And as the circled glasse contracts the flames,
That noon-tide Sun did scatter with his beams,
And makes them like meridian lines, at last
To meet in one point, as from one they past:
So here those nobler flames that were comprest,
Some here in one, some in anothers brest,
Of all those famous Barm'stons, once alive
Met here, in this conjunction cop' lative.
So that to raise a Trophie to his fame,
From those same vertues that have run ith' name,
And hence to fetch one stone, and thence another,
To catch at this in that man, that in t'other;
This were to goe about, as he should stray
From hence to London, should take York in's way.
VVe'l make a shorter cut of it by farre,
VVhile he alone both compasse is, and star;
And though our Logick-mongers teach for truth,
That accidents must never dare ( forsooth)
To change their soyl (but like some fetter'd Asse,
Inclos'd in wals, must alwayes feed on grasse;
Or as we read it was with Shimei)
But stir from subjects once, they needs must dye.
Yet here we finde those vertues all doe dwel,
In which each Sire of his did most excel;
And having lest their former soyl, yet more
Did thrive in him, then e're they did before.
So wel, (though Logick scoffe) without correction,
Divinity maintaines her resurrection,
[Page 28] In short, his Father gave him life and breath,
But he ( O Miracle) even after Death.
Revives his Fathers Fathers, makes them be
(Being long since dead) fresh in our memory.
Yea, he survives himself, and cannot die,
Until the ending of eternity.
But minde thy self, my Muse, remember how
Thy calling makes all other things to bow
To one, (Religion) leave all other then,
And make this one, the subject of thy Pen.
Nor need'st thou here put on Creative power,
As Poets sometimes do; who in one hour
Create him Saint, being dead, who all men know
A walking devil was, when here below:
None need to stretch his conscience, here to tell
Officious lies for one, that burns in hell;
To draw belief to't, by his forged story,
That, that damn'd caitiff, is a Saint in glory;
And thereby make even Boyes and Girls to point,
And say, The Preachers conscience's out of joynt.
No, speak he most▪ then can; there is no fear▪
It should offend the tend'redst conscienc'd ear.
No new truths can be preach'd, but what are known,
No better by the Preacher, then the Town.
All men that knew him, by his life might know,
He was not onely great, but godly too:
Nor was his saintship of that new Edition,
Which Sequestrations make, or a Commission:
Gain brought him not to Piety. To rise
From sin to grace, he ne'er learn'd by th' Excise.
Nor did he ( Proteus like) to all mens view,
Change his religions face, still for a new,
As th' old grew out of credit; he ne'er made▪
Religions change to be his gainful trade.
[Page 29] 'Twas Conscience made him Pious, no design
To rob thee (gasping Church) of what was thine.
He deem'd that which the new Saints of our Age,
Count a main peece of Piety, Sacriledge.
But peace my Muse; thou'dst fame to th'later times,
And cloath this Heroes actions in thy rhimes;
Thou long'st to bring partic'lars on the stage,
And would'st; but that the growing Peers o'th' age
Being set o'th' counter part, would surely raise
Thine Elegiake strains, to Satyr layes,
And make them speak so loud, that without doubt,
They'd doom thee to't, to have thy tongue cut out.
I think it therefore, far the safer way,
Thou prate no more, but that thou rather pray,
Many such Barnardistons God would send,
Th'unhappiness of Church and State to 'mend.
Samuel Reyner, Thirloe Mag.

An Elegy at the Funeral of that truly Honor­rable, and most Religious Knight, the Right Worshipful Sir NATH. BARNARDISTON.

WHat Marble now is dry? then shall not we
Our tears pour forth, at this solemnity?
In ancient time the men of Carthage Town,
Upon Masistius death, their Towers brake down;
Their Walls they hung with blacks, and Towers torn,
That so not onely men, but stones might mourn.
[Page 30] The Rock it self, when Moses smote did spring;
Streams Crystalline the fiery Flint did bring.
Much more should we, now God himself doth smite,
Send forth our streaming tears; for these of right
Are due; if we deny this tribute, then
The stones that now shed tears, will shame us men.
When Pompey by Septimius was slain,
The valiant Julius Caesar did disdain
To view his head; when to him it was sent,
His Kingly heart, with pity did relent;
His Cheeks bedew'd with tears, his clemency
Did manifest ev'n to his enemy.
If Julius Caesar wept thus for a fo,
Then for a friend, much more should we do so.
For such a friend, whom all men may of right,
Most truly term, The High Gods favorite.
His dearest darling, and all mens delight.
Who whil'st he liv'd with us, out-shin'd in grace
The rest of men, now sees God face to face:
When that the Emp'ror Titus did depart:
What cloudy looks, moyst cheeks, and heavy heart,
Might be beheld all o'r the Roman State,
Each single man bemoaning his sad fate:
And thus concerning him, they did complain,
Titus is gone, t'our loss, though to his gain.
The same may we take up; Gods darling's gone.
'Tis for his good, though our affliction.
Well mourn we may, as in some silent grove,
Whil'st he in heavenly joyes, triumphs above.
Nathaniel he was, Gods gift to us;
A Gem, a precious Pearl esteem'd, and thus
[Page 31] The greater was our joy; but now deceas'd,
The more our grief, and sorrows are increas'd.
It seems God gives and takes, who can gainsay?
God saith, Give me my gem, who shall say nay?
Who shall resist his will? Lord take thine own,
But give us leave, our loss for to bemoan.
A custom 'twas of old, that men renown'd,
Not onely living, but when dead, were crown'd.
Marcellus once this honor did receive,
The same the Emperor Augustus gave
To Alexander's Tomb: Demetrius
His Urn (when he was dead) was crowned thus.
Not any man more worthy of this Bay,
Then he for whom we celebrate this day.
A King he liv'd, most worthy to be crown'd,
In whom so many graces did abound.
A King he di'd, Deaths Victor now sits down
In Heaven resplendent, with a glorious crown,
When Death uncas'd his Soul, it to Heaven tended,
And by his declination he ascended.
How now grim Death, whence cometh thus thy rage?
What, could'st finde none but th' Phoenix of our age,
To exercise thy cruelty upon?
No twinkling Star, none serve thee but the Sun,
Thus to eclipse? How do'st thou think shall we
Deport our selves, when we no Sun can see?
Whence this thy hate to break our Rule and Line,
To take our Pattern from's that was Divine?
Hadst thou no white, but innocencies heart,
Whereat to level this thy forked dart?
O 'tis not he, but we that feel the smart.
[Page 32] Lo here a Spectacle we see,
To teach us all, what we must be.
Wouldst know thy mettal? then look on
The Mould and Earth, thou tread'st upon.
Look here proud man, behold thy Mother,
For at the first, thou hadst no other:
She brought thee forth, thou art her son,
Flesh of her flesh, bone of her bone.
Thou must repay again, what she hath lent thee,
Thy flesh thy bone, and what e'r else she sent thee.
Tho. Marriot. M. A.

On the Death of that Noble Patriot of his Country Sir Nath. Barnardiston.

I Heard that many Poets went of late
In a full throng to knock at Heavens gate,
Humbly beseeching Jove of his quick brain,
(From whence Minerva, without Mothers pain,
Or Midwifes help, a witty Dame did flow)
Some few small Particles on them bestow;
And highly their immortal souls inspire,
With a divine and active nimble fire;
That they might fancies, quick, and high conceive,
And might even Virgil of his Bayes bereave.
'Twas granted; then in haste to Helicon,
With fury rapt beyond themselves they run,
And for their guide, among the nine they chuse,
A fullen, melancholly, pensive Muse,
[Page 33] To shew that bitter stream of Pegasus,
That prompted Naso with De Tristibus:
Of this they largely drinking to their fill,
Did into farre more bitter tears distill,
Sounding aloud, in hideous lamentation,
As when Plague, Sword, and Famine fright a Nation.
I wondring, curiously the cause desir'd,
VVhich so much wit, and so much grief requir'd;
'Twas answer'd in a sad, and doleful voyce,
By one whose sorrows did surmount his noyse.
Alas! of all good men (of such though blest,
The Catalogue's but short) we' ave lost the best;
Prince in his Tribe, his Countries Patriot,
By election made, not undiscerning Lot;
A just, wise, honest, noble Senator,
Lover of Peace, contentions Arbiter,
Patron of Learning, Poverties releife,
The Angels joy, and ease unto friends grief.
Farewell, brave Soul, whom now the Saints do greet,
In all things high, but in thine own conceit.
These great Elog'ums did me little move,
(A stranger to his person, and his love:)
Beside, I knew that Poets, some for gaine,
Many for feare, and more for hunger, straine
The musick of their pliant, giddy passion,
To any humour of Mecaenas fashion;
Yet some impression I must needs admit,
Seeing whole Families, and Hamblets sit
Like Israel by Euphrate discontent,
As if his absence were their banishment.
I therefore did unto the Funerall show,
If not a Party, yet Spectator goe;
There was the much lamented herse let down,
In hope of resurrection to a crown;
[Page 34] In silent vault confin'd with worms, and dust,
Where marble must consume, and iron rust;
Whence we expect a glorious release,
For th' seeds corruption tendeth to increase.
But when I saw the mournful Dowager,
Like Mary Magdalen by th' Sepulcher,
Fixing her eyes upon the greedy grave,
Which humane flesh unsatisfi'd doth crave;
As if in that cold bed she'd rather lye,
Then part with her old loving company.
When Children, Nephews, Kinsmen there stood dumb,
Like Images, to deck the dead Knights Tomb;
I could not then refraine, but these tears lent,
As drops to th' Sea, their sorrow to augment.
Sure he was very good, who when life fayl'd,
Left so much wealth behind, and's yet bewayl'd;
Whose heir can slightly look upon his gold,
And wish't ith' live Testators hand untold?
But grieve not Sirs, nor envie him, his mind,
He's far above what he hath left behind;
Nathaniel is not dead, but was entic'd,
To leave his Fig-tree, for to follow Christ.
Edmund Vnderwood.

A Funerall Elegie on the Right Worshipfull Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston.

WHen Abner dy'd, King David then could say,
A great man fell in Israel that day.
But how may we lament, to see Gods hand,
Thus snatch this great and good man from our Land?
[Page 35] This our right Worthy, Sir Nathaniel▪
Who did not suffer guile in him to dwel;
But when our giddy-headed Nation run
After strange Meteors, he most like the Sun,
Kept on his course in Justice, Truth, and Right,
And shin'd more clearly in this sable night.
Rend now your hearts, and be confounded all,
That love the truth, at Barnardistons fall;
When such strong pillars from the Church are ta'ne
VVhat can we judge in reason to remaine,
But desolation? yet great Jove can still
Extract much good from greatest sence of ill.
Near forty years hath he most glorious been,
In strengthning vertue, and suppressing sin;
Of all that knew him was he most renown'd;
And now by God that made him is he crown'd,
And in immortal glory shall remaine,
Until that day that all shal rise againe:
And then with Christ his Saviour shal appear,
To judge all those that were Apostates here.
John Soame, Gent.

An Elegie on the much lamented death of Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston.

VVEre I indued with that learned skil,
To mourn thy doleful death, with such a quil
As might it grave in lines, as faire, as those
Thou wrot'st thy noble life in; and compose
[Page 36] Each sillable by so exact a square,
As that whereby thy actions formed were;
Then might I such an Elegie invent,
As should thy death unto the life lament;
Then such sad accents, such a doleful verse
I might breath forth, as might become the herse
Of a Nathaniel, and might fully tell,
How sad's the death of one that liv'd so well:
How as th' Inamorato of Sol's ray,
The Heliotrope, which in the lightsome day
Displayes its widest beauty to his light,
Doth closed mourn his absence in the night:
So doth the Country, which with great desire
VVont to receive th' influence of that fire
Of prudent Piety, which from thy brest
Sent forth most glittering rayes, but now (th' art blest
Else-where with light more glorious, and dear)
Lament thy setting in our Haemisphear.
But 'tis an Art my ruder Pen can't reach,
To mourn thee as becomes; and so to teach
Strangers to know thy pious worth, and see
How great a joy all good men lost in thee.
Besides, to speake so highly in thy praise,
As thy true worth requires, may chance to raise▪
In some mens mindes mistrust of flattery,
And thy due praise be thought Hyperboly.
But since perhaps: it might be thought a crime,
Now to be wholly dumb, at such a time,
When so renown'd a Heroe cals to speake;
Somewhat i'le say, though but in accents weak,
And yet but little wil I speake, and that
Not in thy praise; (Reader, do'st start hereat?)
The reason's this; Not that I envie thee,
That, which is known of all, thy due to be;
[Page 37] But that thy worth far doth my Pen transcend.
And he that poorly praise doth discommend.
Not to disparage then thy worth in Layes,
Too meane by far for thy deserved praise:
All that ile say is only this, to tell,
Thy worth needs not my praise, 'tis known so well.
Ralph Garnons. M. A.

On the Right Worshipful and ever honoured Knight, Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston.

A Grave! a Funeral! my Muse, no toyes
Become this Scene, no fancies like decoyes,
To tangle Readers in a pleasing maze
Of lofty words, wrapt in Luxuriant phrase:
These are not seasonable, now our verse
Can nought else speake, or think of, but a herse.
That Macedonian Trumpet, that did bring
Memento mori to a mighty King,
Instead of Ave Phillip, late hath brought
Vs doleful newes, a sad disastrous thought.
Stand off, come not too near, give aire, give breath,
I faint to speake of late unweildy death,
Snatcht not a Philip, but Nathaniel hence,
An Israelite, that of no guile had sence,
One whose rare piety that's much admir'd,
Speake him an earthly Angel, though attir'd
In Robes of Flesh; one of a higher mind,
Then could to lower regions be confin'd,
Whose heaven-born soul did still in contemplation,
Passe o're those heavenly joyes, whose adumbration
[Page 38] He fully now enjoyes; those pleasing shades,
In sweet Elysi'um, where joy never fades:
Those Hills of Solyma, where purest streams
Make glad the region of that Sun, whose beams
Those healing wings, continually refresh
The Sacred Pilgrim, when dis-rob'd of flesh:
There rests this holy Saint; what heretofore
He could but see in part, and wish for more;
H'ath now attain'd: O rare state of perfection,
The end of hope, joyes center, Saints election.
Nor did his strict religion onely speak
His Peerless worth, which we (alas) poor, weak,
And crazy mortals, knew not how to prize:
But he had gifts more obvious to our eyes,
Love to his Country, whose affairs he minded
With so great care, that none but envy-blinded
Can cease condoling him, whose name who hears
In future times shall steep himself in tears:
And like sad Niob', standing o'er his Tomb,
Shall kiss the Earth, in whose most happy Womb
He lies inclos'd; and to his sacred Urn,
As to a Delphick Oracle shall turn.
But stop my Muse, his V [...]rtues so transcend
Thy weak expression, that perhaps i'th' end
Thy minde may be mis-deem'd, and some may raise
An argument against thee from thy praise:
Better forbear to speak, then speaking wrong
The harmless dead, to whom all praise belong:
Condole we then his loss, his Vertues pass,
Prais'd by themselves, engrav'd in firmest Brass,
Which time shall ne'er wear out, nor malice blot,
But Fame shall render blameless without spot.
Yet this admit, the more his Vertues shone,
Our loss the greater, and the more our moan.
[Page 39] O for a Mount of Tears to sleep upon,
Acis or Biblis, for a Helicon:
But wishes boot not, clear we then our eyes,
He's singing now triumphant Elegies.
Whil'st we poor mortals groveling here below,
Fall short of that his praise, we fain would show.
This onely dare we own, that for his Herse,
If fancy fail, yet grief hath made a Verse.
Abrah. Garnons, M. A.

The Offering of an Infant-Muse to the Memory of Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston.

YOu Sager Heads, that do attend this Herse,
Accept the Homage of a Yonglings Verse.
Tears are griefs rhetorick, and a Childe though weak,
Knows how to weep, before it learns to speak.
I have my end, although my stile be rude;
Who do not study wit, but gratitude.
This Noble Gentleman, when first I came
Into the world, bestow'd on me my Name.
Now he hath lately left the world, shall I
Foolishly modest, suffer his to die?
What though far abler Pens applaud him, yet
They meant to pay their own, and not my debt.
His prayers for, and favors to me shown,
No other Muse proclaims besides my own,
Which though a new-Born spark, yet such a Name,
May quickly mount it up into a flame:
A Name wherein you nothing mean, can spy
His Birth, Place, Person, Graces; all were high
[Page 40] Whilest here: But now he in those heights doth dwell,
That nothing, but an Angels tongue can tell.
My Infant-Muse opprest with such bright glory,
Leaves flaming Seraphims to write his story.
Nath. Owen. Anno Aetat. 12 o.

Obsequies to the Memory of Sir Nath. Barnardiston, Kt.

GIve leave (my Friends) unto this sable Herse,
To offer up a Tributary Verse:
Even such, as love and sorrow shall suggest:
Sorrow ne'er made good Poet, Love the best.
O! how much rather, if th'all ordering hand
Of Providence Divine (which none withstand)
Had so dispos'd, I would have brought this day
My salutary vows; but now the way
To joy's shut up: The scene which whylome we
Thought Comick, now ends in a Tragedy.
Where were yee Galen and Hippocrates?
Thou Paracelsus, who didst vainly please
Thy self, to boast with thine Elixar's art
To make a man immortal? could'st that part
Have acted here, or some years lusters more,
Have added to his lives lease? on this score,
Like loyal Romans for Augustus, we
A during statue to thy memory
Would have erected; grav'd thy name in Brass,
Lasting to ages glory: But (alas!)
[Page 41] Nor Themison, nor Aesculapius,
Machaon thou, nor Podalirius,
'Mongst the Galenick Nation, though you be
Cheif Doctors, conld you bring a remedy
To supersede this fate: That hand that gave
This wound ( Achilles like) could onely save:
Then which no other weapon-salve, I know,
Nor universal medicine here below.
He's therefore gone, and we alive to see,
The Monument of our mortality,
His sacred reliques; and remember what
He was in's life, and study to be that.
But is there any that will undertake,
To write his copy; I fear his hand will shake,
Or's Pensil's dull, or some fault in his eyes,
That he'l indent deform'd obliquities.
Yet his clear eye, and steady hand ne'er drew,
But strait lines from the center, for he knew
And learn'd from such a master, who alone
Could guide the hand and hearts position.
And so he guided was, that few are seen
On this worlds Theater, or er'st have been
Equal proficients with him in this art,
This heavenly art of living well; which part
He much adorn'd, and 'twas his greatest grace,
And worth's embellishment in such a place,
As God had set him, to be good as great;
Goodness and greatness, both well here did meet
In him. How soon began! for in his prime
He chose (not like luxurious youth) his time
To spend in th'ages wanton revellings;
But sought that merchandize, which onely brings
That great advantage (after all his care
And travel) now possess'd, without all fear
[Page 42] Of loosing: he by firm indenture bound
Himself to God, not for years; for he found
They might expire, and's Fathers legacy
Was more then this poor worlds annuity.
Therefore in graces tenure, humbly he
Cast anchor unto all eternity.
And now his torn, and weather-beaten bark
With the worlds storms and tempests, like the ark
Puts int' a quiet harbor, even as that
Rested upon the Mountain Ararat.
He left this world i'th' storm by Land and Sea,
Yet he a calm and sweet tranquillity
Found in himself; as one that swom to Land,
Having scap'd shipwrack, doth i'th' Harbor stand
Safe and secure; yet viewing with sad eyes
The Monuments of Neptunes cruelties:
Or he whose ship from some far Countrey bound,
Laden with Gold and Spice, at length hath found
The wished Port, prayes that his Friends may see,
The like returns advantage; so did he,
Having receiv'd his lading home secure,
Prayes God, the States and Churches to ensure.
But whil'st we minde his gain, we value not
Our loss, nor can: The Saints indeed have got
One that will bear a part with them, whil'st we
Are left to sing a doleful Elegie.
To mourn, becomes us well; here needs no art
To paint a tear, that comes not from the heart:
Or that we hire some ancient praefica'es
To howl their well-dissembled nania's.
For such sad Sables ( Sorrows Livery)
Well may they hold a semblance to the eye,
Of some thing which we see; but for the rest
Behinde the Curtain, Cannot be exprest.
[Page 43] So did that Artist when he came to draw
The Parents grief, for Iphigenia,
Cast o'er a veil, (the rest within made good
By an Aposiopesis understood)
Then draw the Curtain here (my Muse) and tell,
The World thou can'st with no lines parallel,
Their grief, whose honor 'twas once to have had,
A Wife, or childes relation here: So sad
Appears the Scene, There's none that bears apart
A mourning robe, without a mourning heart.
Yet once again (thou Cypress tree)
Let me now pluck a branch from thee;
Bitter constraint, and saddest wo,
( Alas) compels me so to do.
Thou wont'st not to receive a call
To every vulgar funeral.
We'll therefore not impropriate
Thy custom, since 'tis our sad fate
To loose a Heroe of that worth,
As nature rarely bringeth forth.
Mourn then, for on this woful Beer
Lies one, that hath not left his Peer.
For whom the Heavens (as if too long,
They had expected him among
His Fellow Saints) at last have sent
Now to compleat their Parl'ament.
Saxa ruunt Mausoli invisa, ruunt (que) Colossi
Mole sua; & si quae porrò Monumenta vetustas
Condidit, illa abolevit edax; vel quicquid Apelles
Pinxerit, ant si quid Lysippus duxerit olim,
[Page 44] Apparent nusquàm (ne subsistente ruinâ.)
At meliora tibi pietas Monumenta locavit,
Quippe fides tua clara (aevo rarissima nostro)
Te petrae inseruit. Titulo te posse carere
Ergone Marmoreo? licet aut componere parvis
Maxima? Nam (que) Choro coelesti ascriptus iniquum
Ut remeare velis divisis mente Britannis.
Qui tamen, (et si nos tot blandimenta nepotes
Chara reliquisti) superes ubi nulla cupido
Invadet redeundi, non si populusve senatus
Antiquum ad meritum (que) locum revocare potesset.
Consociare tuis, te suaviloquentior usquàm
Nec fuerat dum tu fueras, nec amantior ullus
Qui potuit. Quoties dextram (Venerande) benignam
Tu mihi, quàm gratos amplexus saepe dedisti,
Nulli ementitos? verus monitor (que) fidelis
Idque frequens mihi; cultor eras quia tu neque parens
Numinis atque alios mecum suadere solebas.
Oh quoties & quae nobis memoranda locutus
Digna velut clavo maneant infixa trabali?
Nam neque tu quenquam vano sermone morari,
Pejorem solitus coram aut demittere tristem.
Quos vultus, quales vidi candore micantes!
Atque oculos? mihi quos spectare (heu non licet ultra.)
At nunquam? Oh nunquam nostras resonabit ad aures
Vox antiqua sonos modulans mihi quàm bene notos:
Nam mihi nunc superas heu dissociabilis; oras
Lenta nimis vela impellent suspiria nostra
Hasce iterum infidas, ut frustrà referre conemur.
Ast ego quando quidem nobis te fata tulerunt,
O quàm te memorem, & memorans suspiria [...]undam,
Dum maestus reddam solennia vota Sepulchro.
Joh. Clopton. Gent▪

An Epicedium upon the death of that thrice worthy Knight, Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston, eminent for Piety to God, love to the Church, and fidelity to his Country.

IT's easie for to write an Elegie
On common fates, great sorrows stupifie;
A toe or finger lost, we can complain,
But wounds receiv'd in liver, heart, or brain,
(The parts that be architectonical)
Oppress the sence, we should complain withall.
A cask that nought, but the light air doth hold,
Sounds far more shrilly, then one fil'd with gold;
Fleet streams are clamorous, the deepest joyes
And sorrows, their own depth do keep from noyse.
Our losse so vast, as would a country breake,
We want both help to bear, and strength to speak.
What is't to hear a wife, or children cry,
Should such a father, such a husband dye?
Or a few mournful Schollars make this moan,
Our-dear Mecaenas, our best friend is gone;
Th' expences of a sorrow that's thus large,
Should be borne out at a whole Nations charge;
A publick taxe of grief, whole subsidies
Of tears, and freely given, wil scarce suffice.
Where are you all, who while he was alive
Own'd none but him, your representative?
Resound a Barm'stons name, cannot that breath
Which silenc'd other Rivals, silence Death?
Shal the graves prison your free choyse prevent,
And break a priviledge of Parliament?
[Page 46] Tell him, he hath your suffrages, least we
Judge you have lost your voyce, as wel as he;
But since your tongues avail not, let your eyes
Discharge their last debt to his obsequies.
Tears have a strong ( though silent) eloquence;
You cannot speake, yet sigh thus out your sence,
Our Patriot is dead, who oft was known,
Saving our freedoms, to have lost his own.
From right who would not swerve, or conscious wrest,
To please a side, or serve an interest;
Who liv'd by rule Divine, and human Laws,
And did not dread the power, nor court th' applause
Of the wilde multitude, but firmly stood
To his first principles, and those were good;
And as his Tenents, so we may be bold
To say, his honours and estate were old.
H'was born to both, had no need to desire
To warm his hands, by's neighbours house on fire.
His plentiful revenues did not rise
To higher rates, since taxes and excise;
Fames trump sound's forth his ancestours renown,
When th' Henries, and the Edwards wore the crown;
Mushrooms of Gentry can streight from a blew
Be dipt in scarlet, which is honours hue,
Yet in his birth and bloud he found a staine,
Till 'twas innobled, and he born again.
You reverend Divines go on to tell
His following story, whom he lov'd so wel.
You are Gods Heraulds, and by place design'd,
T' emblazon his most noble heav'n-born mind;
His faith most vigorous, though crost by sence,
Could grasp a promise, eye omnipotence;
Through the black clouds, that 'fore the Church were drawn,
He could fore-see her day was near to dawn.
[Page 47] The rage of enemies now grown so stout,
He judg'd a blaze, before their light went out;
His zeal tow'ring aloft to heavenly things,
Yet was discreet, had eyes, as wel as wings;
Humble in height of place, troubles he knew,
Though great, yet just; by bearing, to subdue.
His love to Christ, the Church, shone bright as day,
Ireland can witnesse, yea America:
In all these he enjoy'd the name, and stile
Of a true Israelite, and free from guile,
Though not from sin, yet in a Gospel sence,
Sincerity is counted innocence.
This, at his death, caus'd him such peace within,
For death scares none, but where it meets with sin.
His Noble Lady now disconsolate,
Like a true Turtle, which hath lost her Mate,
And sad posterity known by their eyes,
We do not here invite to simpathize;
'Twere cruelty to straine a bleeding sore,
Instead of stanching to provoke it more.
Oh, dry your tears up, whilst you stil complain;
You only mind your loss, but not his gain;
Were't not more love for to rejoyce, as he
Doth there, then to wish him our misery?
Repine not at his change, would you again
Hear him complaining under sin, and pain?
We in retired corners melt our eyes
In tears, and breath our spirits out in sighs,
Whilst he in glory is triumphant; where
He never hears a groan, nor sees a tear.
Our Muse sings nought but Elegies, his tongue
Is now a chanting forth a marriage song.
Grieve not at his new honour lately sent,
To sit ith' upper house of Parliament,
[Page 48] where all three States agree, and none doth strive
For Priviledges, or Prerogative;
Before whose bar other great Courts shal come,
To give up their accounts, and hear their doom:
In this the worlds supream just Council, none
Can cause; or fear a dissolution.
Ergo triumphatis inferni finibus, ipsâ
Morte exarmatâ, regna superna petis.
Quid non fata regunt? senio monumenta fatiscunt;
Ipsa (que) cernuntur posse sepulchra mori:
Sed pietas & rara sides patriae (que) cupido
Fervida vicerunt jura superba necis.
Dignum hunc laude virum, lex, plebs, ecclesia, cleru [...],
Catera si taceas, vivere musa jubet.
Cistula diffringi potuit, sed gemma superstes
Us (que) nitens, nullo est interitura die.
Non is vana fuit ingentis nominis umbra,
Praemia sed meritis fama minora dedit.
Quem non prava jubens irati principis ardor,
Non populi rabies mente quatit solida.
Perstitit ut rupes variis vexata procellis,
Fixa basi firma, quae tamen us (que) stetit.
Heu! vereor ne haec magna domus suffulta columnis,
Tam validis, ruptis hisce, misella cadat.
Joh. Owen. Rect. Wrat. par.

To the Memory of that renowned Knight, Sir Nath. Barnardiston,

LOok as the Heliotrope the Sun's lov'd flower,
That spreads the yellow curtain of her bower
At his fair rising, closes it again
When he declineth westward to the main:
Ev'n so should we, (our Phoebus gone to bed,)
Shut in our joyes, and hang a drooping head:
Our lips in sables dresse, close mourners all,
Our tongues are to pronounce a funerall;
A Barmston's funerall; recall that name,
A name so old, 'twil fit the trump of fame;
A name too heavie for a slender quil,
Whose very echo would a Nation fill;
A name so good, posterity may run
Division on that name, till time were done.
Pardon ( great Sir) we cannot speak thy worth,
Apollo's tongue-ty'd, and must lisp it forth;
To score each vertue on thy noble tombe
Would strike invention, and the Muses dumbe.
What Quire of wel-breath'd Lungs screw'd ne'r so high,
Can reach the Ela of that harmony,
That did concenter in thy pious brest,
Warb'ling forth Airs, such as the Sphears might feast;
Sweet consort! where the Graces tune their throats,
And vertues chant their Polyphonian notes,
Striving t' excel in those diviner Layes,
And crown their Master with coelestial bayes.
But oh! we lack an Orpheus in our eares
That might distinguish (they are stopt with tears)
[...] [...]
[Page 50] Each lofty straine; each Rapsody resound,
And take each quaver at the first rebound;
Our sence is dul, and cannot comprehend
The words they breath'd, unless his Ghost do send
A key t' unlock the closet of his heart,
(Which may their language to our eyes impart)
We must dispair to read those Heav'n-borne tones,
And be content to spel their minde in groans.
Sure 'twas his Musick act, he's gone from hence
To Heav'ns-Kings Chappel there for to commence
Doctor in glory, and hath left us here
To celebrate his feast, our funeral chear.
Oh! how his consort, and his mourful train,
Their Cristal cisterns broach, draw, tun again,
Brim full with tears, each tender eye o' reflows,
And proves a running banquet in the close.
That friend, who brings a pallate in his eyes,
May fill his stomach at these obsequies.
But now our dear Mecaenas leads the way,
Come, come; enough, our sorrows cannot stay:
The slow-pac'd Mourners wait upon the herse,
And teach their feet to tread elegiac verse:
The vertues which were inmates in his brest,
Hover about, now they have lost their nest;
And fear lest they who had a cage of gold
Be forc'd to wander (charity's so cold)
Nay beg for harbour, woo each heart they meet,
Yet find no lodging but a winding-sheet.
Unhappy hand of fate, that went about
To make the holes whereat these Birds flew out [...]
These pretty Phil' meles hop from flag to flag,
Filling th' air with sweetness, as they wag
Their lovely wings, each eare with elogies,
And thus extol their patron to the skies.
[Page 51] VVhat soaring pinion's able to expresse
That wel ground constancy, the sole impresse
That rul'd thy actions, and as firmly stood
As doth the Oke the Monarch of the wood;
VVhose stately towring top scorns to strike sayl,
(Like to the Poplar) to each whiffling gale,
And dance a quaver with a trembling bough,
VVhen Boreas plays a crochet on his brow?
Men now adays in such a posture stand,
That's ready to receive each base command:
Blow what wind wil, like the wind-serving Vane,
They wil comply, then as you were again.
Mechanick spirits with their supple joynts
Can ring the changes to a thousand points,
And please their ears too with that Stygian sound,
That's harsh enough ev'n Babel to confound.
But Barm'ston moved in an higher sphear,
Disdain'd to crouch unto degenerous fear,
And on the Hinges turn his Patron knee,
To dance the humours of disloyalty.
Blush, blush you servile natures, that can mould
Your very souls into what frame you would;
New cast your moulds, and work your brittle clay
To such a temper, as with honour may
Heav'ns-broad-backt Porter Atlas strength excel,
And under-prop the Churches cittadel,
And tott'ring state. A pillar we have lost
By deaths unhappy stroke (our glory's crost)
An ancient Pillar, whose firm basis stood
Supporters of the truth, and what was good,
Ev'n when surrounded with the dangerous seas
Of Errors, [...]hisms, and Metamorphoses;
Call it Seths pillar, wonder, and vouchsafe
To read th' inscription in this Epitaph;
[Page 52] Behold Nathaniel, sayes sacred style,
An Isra'lite indeed, in whom's no guile;
An holy vessel tunn'd with noble breath,
By Surgeons broacht, to be drawn out by death.
Mirrour of goodness, and of constancy,
Gods gift, our losse, within this vault doth lye.
Quòte, maesta pedes? an quò via ducit, in aedem?
Musa▪ perantiquum quid petis aegra locum?
Fortè sepulchrales mens est invisere sedes,
Et veterum exuvias; ossa (que) spectra times?
Flebilis illa refert, vix ora in verba resolvens,
Heu! cineres magni nominis urna tenet!
Et dictura fuit Barmston, dolor occupat ora,
Sic vox ipsa haeret faucibus: exit Io.
Tesequar; at lentis pedibus modò currite versus;
Funeris, heu, maestos cogor inire modos!
Stella serena poli cecidit jam gloria nostri;
O decus! O nostri stella serena poli!
Hac signante viam, non qualem erraticus ignis
Nil metuit populus, stagna profunda, dolos.
Infaustos nusquam radios diffudit in orbem,
Evomuitve iras, bella nefanda, neces.
Indidit huic nullas vires natura malignas,
Quales cancer habet, scorpius, a [...] (que) canis.
Quin dedit aspectus aequos frontem (que) benignam:
Luce sub innocuâ non latet ulla lues.
Scilicet innumeri fulgent hinc indè planetae,
Et nova dispergunt lumina: quale decus!
Fert quasi stelliferam per dorsum stellio sphaeram:
Sed cave, tabificam pixida pectus habet.
Lucifer Angelico zeli larvatus amictu,
Decipit incautum credulitate gregem.
[Page 53] Augustam Phoebi faciem mortalibus aegris.
Invida opaco aufert corpore Luna suo.
Non tulit haec nostrum, magno dum luxit in orbe
Aequali peragens tramite Sydus iter.
Meeoenas, Trabeatus, Eques, Pascit, Colit, Ornat,
Clerum, Jus, Patriam, Munere, Voce, Fide.
Singula quid memorem? Nil non laudabile Barmston,
Stemmata nobilitans, stemmate prisca suo.
Nubibus immunis translato est mortis Horizon,
Occasu claro, pulchrior ortus erit.
Ra. Astel.

An Elegy on the Death of the Right Worshipful Sir NATH. BARNARDISTON.

IF Davids Worthies, God himself recount
In Writ Divine, which doth humane surmount.
If Christ, the anointing of his holy Head
Deign'd, as an honor done t'his Funeral Bed;
And to requite this pretious Maries favor,
Embalm'd her name with Everlasting savor.
Then do we not amiss, this faithful Knight
To praise and recommend; if so me might
Hereafter move to pious emulation,
Posterity by holy imitation.
And not his Son alone, to bear the Name
And Heir his Grace, but others gain the fame
Of being like this er'st renowned Knight,
To equal and surpass him, if they might.
[Page 54] (Whil'st others envy) Ministers are bound,
His praise by Word, and writing forth to sound.
To him who did Prophets on Earth receive,
Prophets reward, both God and Man shall give.
Nathaniel don coruscus Barnardiston
Vixit in hac terra nobilitatu [...] Eques.
Vixisset semper, regeret si stamina vita
Vox populi, cujus claruit auspic [...]it▪
Clarus ad invidiam, quem sic ne (que) dira simultas
Flexit ab officio carcere, sive mini [...].
Mista priora novis, nec summa pericla movebant
Obstrictum Patriae cumpiet ate Deo.
Eripit hunc nobis (que) suit mors scaeva, videmur
Orbatam patriam flere, perinde domum.
Quem Deus indid sit, rapuit mors sava, queremur,
Non rapuit reddens officiosa Deo.
Ossa quidem nobis anima ascendente reliquit;
E [...]apsam ut vestem quam tenet arca pia,
Qua, Deus expurgans simul & fulgore deaurans,
Regis in adventu vestiet ad thalamos.
Haec vates sperans, ovat gestit (que) videre
Nunc Monumenta spei, tunc documenta rel.
Observantiae causa posuit. Clemens Ray.

On the Death of that most Illustrious and worthy Knight Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston.

OFt have I seen (in veiwing Monuments)
Of Roral Drops from Marble strange descents:
Wonder not why this Rocky Marble weeps;
For lo! here Noble Barnardiston sleeps
The sleep of death; 'tis strange to cloudy sence,
That in the Tomb there seems no difference
'Twixt just and unjust, Pebble and the Gem.
Here vertue seems to wear no Diadem.
'Tis strange here seems to fall such equal lots
Upon the Traitors, and true Patriots.
But cease fond heart to wonder, 'tis not hard,
God is to such th'exceeding great reward;
And sure to him, who yet could ne'r be wone
To act a Proteus in Religion.
Reward in life, he met with great renown,
God did his faithful acts with glory crown.
Reward in death, for (when the world shall see
Those Pha [...]tons in dust interred be,
Both names and bodies too; and them shall laugh
To scorn, to see no better Epitaph
Then this: Lo here their skeletons are laid,
Who once their Country, and their Church betray'd:)
His name shall live as one, that witness'd well
Himself to be a true Nathaniel.

ACROSTIC.

Nomen in aeternum, Barnurdistone, perenne
Augusta humanum pectus dum capsula condit,
[Page 56] Tulampas terris ast inter sydera coeli,
Haud minimus meliore tui jam parte manebis:
Accingens radiis nitidis tua tempora Phoebus,
Noster amator eras, artis sophiae (que) patronus:
Imminuere decus gentis, virtutis honorem
Electi Heroes; fidei tu semper amicus;
Lex tibi grandis erat virtus quae nescia vinci.
Bruma perennis adest nobis te sole cadente,
Astra calore carent nitidi sine lumine Phoebi,
Rara fides genti virtus procerum (que) propago,
Nostrorum (que) decus capitis tua gloria magni,
Ast nihili pendens, tu talia [...] Christi
Respectu (que) Dei: sacrato sanguine venas,
Diluvians, causa est magni Theodorè triumphi
In coelo solio frueris semper (que) frueris.
Siste viator iter: vultum cortina recondit
Talem quem memores lacrimarum flumine deflent
Omnes, dona Dei nobis cum numina poscunt,
Nos decet hanc deflere vicem, gemitu (que) dolere.
Josephus Skinner, M. A.

An Elegie on the Right Worshipfull Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston.

HEre's one that was an Isra'lite sincere,
In whom all noble vertues did appear;
A faithfull Patriot, one that ever stood
Firme to Gods Cause, and to his Countries good;
And yet by cruel death's impartiall hand
Laid level with the dust: Who can withstand
[Page 57] Death's all commanding power? this tyrants Law
Is that which keeps the universe in awe;
He nips the Infant blossom when it springs,
And aged Snow to dissolution brings:
And though the faded Rose year after year▪
With a fresh colour in her leaves appear,
Age knows no spring, and death will not restore
His stollen goods, till time shal be no more.
O happy those that doe betimes begin
To love Christ Jesus, and to leave off sin;
To walk in holy wayes with Simeon old,
That in the armes of faith their Saviour hold.
The life of such is blest, their death much more,
For then they rest from labour, not before.
Thus (worthy Barnardiston) thou art blest,
Who from thy labours and all pains dost rest.
Death which for thee a crown of gold prepares,
Gives unto us a thorny crown of tears,
And puts us in a mourning frame, for we
Cannot but have sad hearts, when as we see
The Chariots and the Horsmen yeeld to fate,
And few such left to guide the affairs of State:
But yet our grief for thee shall not proceed,
'Tis charity to give to those that need,
That's to our selves; our miseries and feares
Require not only floods, but seas of tears.
Therefore for thee we'l cease our lamentation,
And tak't up for our selves, and for the Nation;
Though for our losse we cannot chuse but grieve,
This comfort shal our passions yet relieve;
That heav'n is joyful, and thy blessed state
Shall be a means our griefs to mitigate.
O what a happy state it were, if we
Had no more cause of sorrow but for thee.

ACROSTIC.

Non audis nostras, Barnardistone, querelas,
Aut lacrymis opus esse putas; sed funera fletu
Tu tua nos ornare vetas; at nos tamen ipsi
Haud ita sentimus, vanum licet esse fatemur
At (que) supervacuum pro te (vir summe) dolorem;
Non ita pro nobis, nam mors tibi maxima merces,
Ipsa tamen summi nobis est causa doloris,
Et poscit lacrymarum imbres, luctum (que) perennem,
Lumina (que) ut lacrymis turgescant semper amaris.
Busta viri tanti studeant ornare Camaenae,
Adsit Melpomene, moestis (que) boatibus auras
Repleat, & totus resonet plangoribus aether,
Nam pietas & prisca fides, & mascula virtus
Angligenum (que) decus, jam nunc periisse videntur.
Religionis honos venerabilis, artis amicus
Defunctus jacet hic▪ titulis & honore priori
Impositis parvo turba comitante Sepulchro,
Sed lacrymis jam parce, sat est, non prorsus ineptus
Te Theodore mori, quisquis vel posse putabit.
Onimium Felix frueris meliore senatu,
Nil ubi juris habet mors, mars, aut Barbarus hostis.
J. C.

On the much lamented death of the right Worshipful Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston.

I VVonder not that Barnardiston's dead,
But rather that he spun so long a thread;
[Page 59] Sure 'tis a sound hath eccho'd through the earth,
Christs verdict on Nathaniels second birth.
Behold an Isra'lite: 'Twas then a wonder,
But now the Gloworm times that we live under,
Write such men Miracles, and they we know
Are ceased, dead, and buried long ago.
We would enjoy'd him longer, but we knew
Who was the gift of God, was Heavens due.
(So Job, he gives and takes) cease then to tell
His worth, whose Epitaph's a Miracle.

[...].

[...],
[...]
[...]
[...].
[...]
[...].
[...].

Memoriae Sacrum equitis Nobilissi­mi, Pientissimique Viri, Nathan. Barnardiston. Equ. Aur.

QUote corripis, viator, properans?
In hunc tumulum converte oculos,
Si modo permiserint
Lacrymae & singultus tui.
Jacet hic
[Page 60] Eques auratus, & vir verè aureus,
Sinè fuco Israelita, & abs (que) dolo:
Ipsemet enim Nathaniel:
Decus Patria, & familiae antiquissimae,
Quae inter trophaea sua hoc jactitat,
Quòd talem peperit.
Amor cleri & Patrocinium:
Orthodoxa Religionis ingens exemplar & columen,
Veris Evangeliti Ministris tutela & praesidium,
Apud eos dum vixerit,
Hi omnes ornarunt calculo
Mortuum,
Lugubri Epitaphio.
Quippe quòd his indulsit, ut parentem decuit,
Ut filium, auscult avit obsequentissime;
Sic quos humi calcavit aetas impia,
Hic fovebat in sin [...].
Ipsimet enim in deliciis, quos mundus reputat
[...].
Lumina ecclesiae radiantia,
Quae seculi rabies
Extincta vult, & effossa penitus.
Heu! quoties [...] est, & (Constantini more)
Deosculatus suaviter.
Defe male suis (que) metuit
Reformata religio.
Dum talem [...]
Fidei columnam & [...] naculum.
Quem non gementem audies? Abiit, hem obiit
Noster Nathaniel;
Tam coeli quam terra [...]
Utrobi (que) affulsit [...],
Hic equestri cinctus [...],
Illic corona redimitus gloriae
[Page 61] Improba & aetate degeneri.
Cum ultra vivere penitus displicet
Eja! tunc juvat mori.
Ultimi in occasu seculi
Occasum is passus est,
Ut celo fulgeat fortiori jubare
Hinc disce Lector;
Tunc tunc nos coelo maturi sumus
Cum huic sumus mundo decidui.
Posuit honoris
Et debitae observantiae ergô.
Johan. Allot.

Chronogramma.
SI patrlae fIDVs perIIt & VerVs aMICVs, VIr pIVs at (que) bonVs, VIta perennIs erIt.

MOrte manet justis sua spes, post fata, futura
Soecula cum venient, ultima cum (que) dies.
Optima sanctorum remanebunt lucra virorum
Illorum effari gaudia nemo potest.
Pessima pravorum remanebunt damna virorum
Illorum effari tristia nemo potest.

Epitaphium.

AN justus periit? dici hunc periisse licebit?
Non licet; in Christo non periturus abit.
Ast periit justus, dici hunc periisse licebit?
Heu! periit nobis, non rediturus abit.
[Page 62] Rara avis in terris est justus, pura (que) corda
Sunt inter spinas lilia nata Deo.
Est constantis opus durum quin ampla corona,
Spes perit illius qui recidivus erit.
Temporibus duris frigent pietatis amici
Vani: sinceri se renovare solent▪
Talis erat vivus Barnardistonus, & inter
Omnes emicuit vir bonitatis amans,
Nathaniel vivus fuit, expers fraude doloque
Sincerus, constans in pietate fuit.
Funus justa petit, justum hunc plorare decebit
Ne plorate nimis, non decet iste dolor.
Dum vixit Christi valde est gavisus amore,
Cum Domino moriens percupit esse suo.
Non sibi sed Christo vixit, nunc mortuus ipse,
Cum Christo coelis gaudia summa sapit.

Ad Lectorem.

En perit justus, perit imbrobus (que)
Sorte communi perit omnis, ecce
Vanitas mundi, cito transit ejus
Gloria fallax.
Dum viges fac ut sapas superna,
Possidens mundum quasi non haberes,
Est pio terris peregrina coelis
Vita perennis.
Pet. St. Hill.

Justa Nathanieli Barnardistono Equiti Aurato.

SIccin' abis? Ò serve Dei ter maxime, splendor
Et columen patriae, & religionis honor.
Heu! nos cur dubio rerum sub turbine linquis,
Turbatur mediis, publica puppis aquis.
Forsitan ingratum quod sese praebuit orbis,
Praemia nec meritis aequiparanda dedit,
Vel te subducis dum transit iniqua tyrannis
Caelitus ereptus, quod super astra regas?
Irrita vota forent terris obstante caterva,
Sed fient coelis omnia quae (que) velis.
Te te prisca fides, teque ipsa Ecclesia poscit
Patronum, fer opem, jam celerato pedem.
Quid stas? at cadis heu! Deus optime fers (que) refers (que)
Gloria quòd dederis sit tribuenda tibi.
Subtrahis heu nobis, Deus optime quod (que) dediste,
Quod tibi cum placeat, gloria summa tibi.
Abstinet a lacrymis quis jam? turgentia guttis
Lumina quis non fert? nocte die (que) fluunt.
Ac veluti fierent modò lumina flumina; cordum
Hinc gemitus, dolor hinc, quòd pius ille jacet.
Qui steteras à parte Dei, dum vivus adesses,
Mortuus aethereas ingrediare domos.
Miles ut emeritus Christi splendescis honore,
Coeptis susceptis glorificando Deum.
Perditur extremus tuus hand orabilis hostis,
Mors Christi Domini quod teneare fide.
Ergo praestiteris cum quod Deus imperat, euge!
In cameram Domini possis inire Dei.
[Page 64] Offert se nobis Israelitica nubes,
Parte priore nigrens, posteriore nitens.
Quod sis sublatus sequitur nigredo superstes,
Quod tua progenies emicat, inde nitor.
Ecce triumphantem jam spiritualibus armis,
Non secus ac Christum tu, sequar ipse ducem.
Jo. French. Art. Mag.

Carmen funebre in obitum clarissimi viri D. Nathaniel Barnardiston. equitis Aur.

OCcubuit clarus claro de stemmate natus
Barnardistonus, gloria certa suis;
Gloria certa suis, magis an genere an pietate
Emicuit quaeras: clarus utro (que) fuit.
Sanguinis en quanto fuerat dignatus honore,
Mentis candores pingere nemo potest.
Effigiem verae virtutis nobilitatis
Candoris nivei religionis babes.
Flete viri, lugete senes, plorate puellae,
Pulpita maesta, sacri funera flete viri.
Nos res lugemus nostras, Ecclesia luget,
Interitum deflet patria maesta tuum.
Te nobis vitia & mores rapuere maligni,
In coelis virtus te tua sancta locat:
Terra tegit corpus, mens aureo regnat Olympo,
Fama Anglos inter celsa perennis erit.
Nath. Eyres.

In obitum Illustrissimi Domini, D. Nath. Barnardiston, Equitis Aurati.

PRo dolor! insignis succumbit gloria nostri,
Nobilium splendor, justitiae (que) decus.
Spes dulcis Patriae decrescit te moriente,
Te vivente, tuo lumine tuta fuit.
Aegrite, [...]udi (que) carent, & carcere clausi;
His data non tarda sunt tua dona manu.
Musarum Pater es, qui sit, post funera Patris
Praeterea vereor nullus adesse velit.
Fulgida stella cadit non ultra credita terrae
Immeritae, at coelis jam quo (que) fix a manet.
Verus amor, spes firma, fides (que) insignia Christi,
Omnia florebant pectore clausa tuo.
Inquè oculis charites habitant & grata venustas,
Nec minor es proavis tu pietate tuis.
Coelitùs haec bona te sanctum fecere beatum,
Et nunc in coelis praemia digna capis.
Te lugeant omnes, lacrymis sint undi (que) sparsi,
Vestitus nigros induat omnis amans.
Qui color albus erat, nunc est contrarius albo:
Jam, jam, conveniet luctibus ille color.
Haec ego; dum laudant alii tua facta, tuas (que)
Ingenio laudes uberiore canunt.
Rob. Hobart.

An EPITAPH. NATHANIEL BARNARDISTON. Anagram. And Art Is In An Noble Hart.

A Generous Knight and Noble Heart lies here▪
I'th' Art of living well, he had no Peer.
A true Nathaniel, and void of guile.
Stay and admire ( Reader) but a while,
Here Barnardiston lies, our loss bemoan
With brinish Tears, as doth this weeping Stone:
Here lies his worst, in Heaven's his better part.
True worth, And Art Is In An Noble Hart.
Sylvanus Morgan.
FINIS.

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