[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.
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.’
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!)
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
FINIS.