Suffolks Tears
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This project was conceived to clean up those books as much as possible and make them more accessible to the interested reader, leading to the creation of a massive list of variant spellings and their corrections. This was used to clean up the text, but is of course only as complete as the list itself. Because of the nature of the original transcription, some words have missing characters or places where the original language (e.g., Greek) was not transcribed. This effort does not change that. Be aware that the original transcription can also be faulty and in some cases entire sentences may be missing.
Although this is no substitute for a properly compared, proofed, and scholarly edition, I believe that the result is a document which is far more accessible, particularly for searching for terms using standard spelling. The document has been cleaned and presented in what I hope is a pleasing and useful format for the vast majority of Christian brothers and sisters who just want access to read these spiritually nourishing works.
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This project took a huge amount of time and skill to bring to fruition. I would particularly like to thank David Jonescue for the initial list of Puritans he found on EEBO and the concept behind this project as well as the continuous, unceasing efforts toward seeing this complete. Without his labor, this would not be available. Alex Sarrouf was invaluable in providing the initial list of over 7,000 spelling variations he had identified and corrected, as well as continuing to review more than 16,000 additions to that list for any typos.
Logan West
(with David Jonescue and Alex Sarrouf)
www.puritansearch.org
[illustration]
S r Nathaniel Barnardiston of Ketton in Suff. K t Obiit A. D. 1653 • t 66. F. H. van. Houe Sculp.
S r Nathaniel Barnardiston of Ketton in Suff. K t Obiit A. D. 1653 • t 66. F. H. van. Houe Sculp.
SUFFOLKS 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 Country, 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 Cornhill, near the Royal Exchange. 1653.
To the Worshipful and highly honored Lady, the Lady Jane Barnardiston. An Offertory.
T
Hrice Noble Lady,
spare that melting Bead,
Our sorrows want no jewel from your head;
Still let those silver drops, that lightly lie
Like little delug'd worlds
within your eye;
Fixed abide
in their own brightest sphere,
His fame
wants not those
pendents
for her ear;
Those falling stars rob heaven,
we need not thence
Borrow our griefs, or
tax you with expense:
Behold
how every Mourner brings his sheet
To wipe your eyes, and weep himself;
'tis meet
That this so public loss by th' Countries charge
Should mourned be:
Spare, Madam,
then: this large
And thicker Volume that is here annexed,
Is but our Comment on that public text:
Come
Argus, Hieraclicus,
lend your eyes
To pay on's tomb a liquid sacrifice;
Lo all the grass that round about him lie,
Hangs
full of tears
shed from
Dame Natures
eye,
See how sad
Philomele
(that yonder sits,
And to the dancing twig her music fits)
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 crowned;
So dark, it seems
Nights mantle
for to borrow,
And may be called,
the gloomy den of sorrow.
E're
since
he died; the
Heavens
their griefs to tell,
Daily in tears to earth's wet bosom 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
style, 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'll 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 favor,
Madam,
'tis this one,
Add to his memory no pictured 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.
AN Acrosticke Elegy on my ever Honoured Friend Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston, who faithfully in all employments served his Country, was renowned for Piety, and exemplary in Religion, died the 25. of July, 1653.
S
Hal
such
Friends die, and my Muse
idle
be?
Isit possible? can
such
stupidity
Remaine in
me,
and I not
dead
with
thee?
Nature donit give, but
lend
its
life
to men,
And at its
pleasure
calls it
back
agen.
The
image
grav'd on man,
God's
right doth show,
His
image 'tis; let
Caesar
have his
due.
And in this
Microcosme
we plainly see
No less then part of
God's Divinity,
In smaller letters;
for the Soul's a
spark
Even of his
kindling,
and (though in the dark
Lodg'd in the
grave,
the
body
seems to be)
Let's hope,
and we shall find
re-unity.
Body
and
Soul
shall join by heaven's great power
As
once
they were,
before
the parting
hour:
Rally the
Atoms
shall, and
then
each part
Not loosing
ought,
by
God's
Almighty Art
Attaine shall to its
just
and
proper
due,
Returning to each
corps
its former
hue;
Descend
then shall the
Soul,
and with a kiss
Its
ancient friend
awake to perfect
bliss:
So these
new married couple
joyfully
To heaven
ascend,
and
match eternity.
Oheavenly
Music!
endless
harmony!
None can
desire
to live, that's
fit
to die.
So slept our former Patriots (when they
Had served their country) in a bed of clay;
Flesh may incinerate,
when
Man
doth
die,
The body in the grave may sleeping lie;
But there's a spark remains, which shall return,
And re-inform those ashes in their urn,
Which when the last days morning shall draw nigh,
Shall raise its flame by heavenly Chemistry:
So
springs
the Phoenix, from which Rise
She's ever called the Bird of Paradise.
Si quis; qui bonus, & pius est? inquirit;
Iësus
Respondet, verus Nomine
Nathaniel.
Inquire whose good? Christ will thee tell,
It is a true
Nathaniel.
WILLIAM SPRING Barronet.
An Elegy containing a Dialogue between the Author and his Muse, and between Death and an Angel.
The sable wings of darkest Night assume,
Cover thy head with blackness, do not fail
Thy brow with mournful shadow now to veil;
Thine eyes now cloud, which may pour down apace,
A shower of brinish tears upon thy face.
Fill up thy breast with sighs, and saddest grief,
With
Rachel's
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, noise not the same
Lest Nature hear, and do dissolve her frame;
Attire thyself in saddest mourning weed,
Put on thy tragick Buskins, haste with speed
Within the ground in lowest darkest cel;
Pale kercher'd sickness lieth at the door,
To him the Porter openeth every hour.
About, above, the Monuments remain,
Of old and young whom direful death hath slain:
There the worlds Victor vanquished doth lie,
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 walls entire of Adamantine rock,
The two-leave'd gates of Steel, so key and lock.
The chambers there with Coffins plancherd sure,
Corruptions sap will not let long endure;
These worn and torn, in time renewed again,
The cost of future Funerals maintain:
The lower floor's of earth, most rooms be full,
Loe here the dead men's bones, and there the skul.
The trophies of
triumphant Death
are there,
The rooms all hung with whited linen are;
The corps intomb'd with juice of Poppy smear'd,
There rest and sleep in dust, no danger feared,
Till that these bodies, putrifactions prey,
Be raised up to life at the
last Day.
The fatal enemy of Mortals breath.
A raw-bon'd carcase, of his
Head
the
hair
And
flesh
is fallen, 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
kills,
yet neither
arm
he hath, nor
hand,
He hath no
feet,
yet walks over
sea
and
land.
Nor
arteries,
flesh, nor
sinews
(wonder)
Hath he, all his joints they are asunder;
His bones,
there
one, and
here
another lies,
He smites,
there
one, and
here
another dies;
Haste thither, knock, call, know the cause,
why
thus
This lean starved
Heluo
snatched our joy from us.
The grace of heart and life, no
pity
find?
Wilt thou thus wrong (oh death) the
Public weal?
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 Zion's hill,
On
Ahaz
Dial keep the shadow
still.
Why
fell he not upon
Elisha's
herse,
That
could
the dead
again
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 died.
Shall I not
once
within this
vale
of tears?
(Or shall I hold my peace,
not speak
my fears?)
Shall 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
offense to
hide
it self with in?
Shall
I not see his presence?
bless
the walls,
Wherein did sound his frequent
sacred
calls,
Of wife and children, and of all the rest,
To wait on God;
who is forever 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 still
praise
his name,
And
walk in right
before him without blame;
So did he
walk,
and so attended
went
With all his train: and in the Temple
spent
Both
hours
and
days,
and of all days
the best,
Wherein both
Christ
did
rise,
and
God
did
rest.
The
time
though
divers,
yet the
precept's one,
Writ
and
ingrav'd
by God's own hand in
stone,
In
midst
of that his
everlasting
Law,
Which might
at all time
keep in dreadful awe
All hearts, and all induce,
his voice
with fear,
And faithful care, and conscience to
hear.
Oh! shall I
never more
observe that eye,
Intently
lifted up
unto the
sky?
And hands stretched out unto
the throne of grace,
And bended knees to fall before the place,
Where
shadowing Cherub
covered 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 savor,
in his heart he said,
Behold,
it's
done
according as thou prayed.
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,
Break off those
fetters, free
thyself
from hate,
And let him
rise
from off that
fatal
bed
Whereon
thou forced him
to lay down his head:
Unto the votes of
high
and low
restore
Their
joy,
to be
enjoyed
as before.
What mean
these words,
these
empty puffs
of wind?
Wilit change
the Fates,
and burn the
sacred roll
Of
God's Decree,
and make thyself a
scroul;
There to
design
each one
to death
or life,
And
heaven
and
earth
to set at
dismal
strife?
Shall
brazen mountains
with a
blast
remove?
Or shall the
Sun
run
retrograde
above?
Shall
morning
o'pe her
purple door
in the West?
And
Moon
and
Stars
to rule the day
be pressed?
And
night
shine forth with
Phoebus
orient beams?
And at
thy will
all rivers
change
their streams?
Then my
Commission
I to
thee
Will give,
The
living
shall not
die,
the
dead
shall
live;
And
mortals
all,
immortal
shall become,
And withered
branch,
with winter blast shall
bloome;
And
Adam
shall with
Eve
to
Eden
go,
No fruit shall kill, no
friend
shall be a
foe.
But if that
Adam
must no more
return,
Why should I break up
Barnardistons
urn?
His faith?
so
Abraham
died, yet did believe;
But
Truth
did
Hezekiah
once reprive,
And
Lazarus
did life again
inspire,
And to his body did the soul
retire:
But
knowest
thou not how
these
of death did taste?
And
back again
unto
my Palace
haste?
Nor
Abram's
faith, nor
Isaac's, Jacob's
fear
Could
shield
them from
deaths
deadly piercing
spear;
So
Joseph, Joshua,
and
Josiah
all,
By sooner, later
strokes
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 yield
To death, against his stroke
they found
no shield;
And
John, Christ's bosom friend,
did hither hye,
And
Christ himself,
the Son of God,
did die;
Elijah
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
Rachel's
children, Death became their Lot.
And thou (O Muse) shall be as
one of these,
When
Atropos
thy thread to cut
shall please.
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 died,
with him,
let us do so.
As
Joseph
went unto old
Jacob's
grave,
So shall this Saint, of us attendance have.
When
of thy
passion
wilt thou make an end?
Wilt thou presume on
Zion 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
assign:
The
Earth
to
Plants,
in
Seas
the
Fishes
swim,
The
Birds
in th'
air
do
wave their
feathers trim;
Shall not the
fixed Stars
in
heaven
shine?
What
God
doth own, wilt thou
detain
as thine?
And
why
among the dead dost
thou
inquire
There is a place beyond that mount
most bright,
Whence
Phoebus
chariot shines with
flaming light;
The
stately City
new
Jerusalem,
Wherein doth dwell
Jehovah,
God of
Shem.
Her
glory
doth as
Jasper stone
appear,
Her
light
like to transparent
Crystal
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
Israel's 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
Christ's
holy train,
Three
from the
South
that
Saints
do entertain.
The
twelve
foundations, each a precious stone,
The
Jasper, Sapphire,
and the
Chalcedon,
The
Sardonix
of color red and white,
The
Sardius
next, and golden
Chrysolite,
The sea-green
Beril,
and the
Topaz
rare,
Chrysoprasus
as gold with green most fair;
The
Jacynth
then, and next to that is set
The
Amethyst
like purple violet,
In those the names of
Christ's, Apostles
are,
That through the world the
Gospel
spread so far.
On those an
hundred forty cubits height▪
And four, the wall so broad, of
Jasper
bright.
Four square the City, and the
measured
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
compass in,
Where
none
can enter, nor abide
with sin.
Where dwells 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 clothed 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 wall most brave
Do hang the
Monuments
of
conquered Hel,
With all the
Fiends
and
Furies,
there that dwell;
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 Lamb
do 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
Well
of
Life
they take their way,
Whence
living streams
do never cease to play;
With
Manna
eke, and sweetest
Nectar
fed,
They, by the
Lamb,
into the
Palace
led;
The Song of
Moses
and the
Lamb
do sing,
With sweetest
harmony
to heavens
King.
In close hereof came
Barnardiston
in,
Who late
the field
from virtues foe did
win:
A troop of
Angels
blest had been his guard,
Into the
Palace,
to
a place prepared:
Wherein the
Emerauld
of virld hue,
For beauties honor strives with
Sapphire
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,
tells the story,
How he in fight with
Sin
and
Death
had stood,
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,
Upon 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 pass;
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,
With 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 shall he always
live,
and never
die,
And
there
shall wait on
highest
Majesty;
And wait to see his
Wife
and
Children
dear
Increase his
joy,
in this his
glories
sphere.
The Lord we pray,
there
grant to
them
a place,
With
their
allyes, and to their
budding
race.
In eundem carmen funebre, comprehensum
In Dialogo inter Musam & Vitam.
Tu{que} premes, victam tu perimes{que} necem.
Vita fugis mortem? meditaris morte fugamne?
Vivas, ut mortem morte fugare queas.
Christopher. Burrell. Rec. Wratten Mag.
An Elegy upon the death of that truly noble Gentleman, famous for Piety and Religion, the right Worshipful Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston, Aug. 25. 1653.
THou stately
Top-bough
of a noble
Stem,
One of God's
Jewels,
and thy Country's
Gem,
That helped to
bless
the
Land
wherein thou wast
Lately a
Saint:
but now those joys are past;
And
we
in sorrows
left,
with hearts most sad,
To think we'ave lost
that bliss
we lately had
In
thee
(Great Sir:) alas, we are now without
A thousand comforts, that from thee dealt out
But lately were, to us, and to all men,
With whom thou hadst to do;
how
shall 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,
What by thy
death
we 'ave lost, in
loosing thee?
What rarest
Orator,
or
Poet
can
Set forth the
use,
or
loss
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 die,
And leave thy friends naught but
an Elegy▪
Could'st thou
but
hear
our plaints, but
hear
our groans,
But
see
our mournful tears, and
know
what moans
Are
uttered
here,
sigh'd, shed,
and
made
for thee,
Th' old'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;
Where thou hast good of all sorts, plenteous store,
And joy at God's right hand for evermore.
There rest (
blest Saint
) thy soul in heavens high story,
Until the
dust
th'ast
left
shall
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
shall
I,
when I have
spent
my store,
What I
can
say, will be
too
••
at, too poor:
Could I but chant out now,
such notes
as he
Doth in
Heavens
Quite, before the
blessed three;
I'd tell 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 looked upon it as
abhorred thrift,
To gain t' himself
a farthing
by the gift
Of any Benefice, though he had
those,
Which if that others had such to dispose,
They would have
worm'd
and
scru'd
out two or three
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 himself; God never mean
It should be so, which thing this Saint knew well,
And
loathed
such
baseness
as he loathed hell.
He was a
Benefactor
to our Tribe,
We
freely
had his boones, he
scorned
our bribe.
If he were now,
whence
once he was
ejected,
(To hear
Petitions
from the ill-affected,
Begging
of men in power to haste, and ply
The
beg'ring
of the godly Ministry,
By stripping them of
means,
and
maintenance,
And 'th other honor 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 proved
untrue
To truth,
or them; loathing
ill-gotten
pelf,
And would have
kept them up;
or
fallen
himself.
And not by seeking theirs have ruined those,
God's
faithful
servants, which
himself
hath
chose,
Gifted, and sent
dispencers
of his mind
To them that sat in the
dark
with eyes-full blind;
And God hath blessed their
pains;
maugre her's
spite,
And brought them out of darkness
into light;
Yea to their
calling
God hath set his
seal,
Their people their
Epistle
are, and weal
Of many
Souls,
through grace, effected by
Their
faithful Labors
in their
Ministry.
I trust our
Worthies
now in
power
will stand
Strong for the
Truth,
and
Gospel
in the Land,
Preach'd
and
professed,
and maugre all our scorners,
Preserve us, that we fly not into corners,
Where
pining souls
their
Teachers
cann
••
see,
So starve and die through
Romish
policy.
Those that have gotten any
Gospel good
From Preachers lips, must love them;
though none stood
For them, and their
encouragement,
but they
Will choose to die before they'll e're give way
To throw them down, and
Heachenize
the Nation,
Knowing 'twil prove
Religions extirpation.
They'l lend no ear in this corrupted time,
To them wh'old make the
Word
a cover-crime.
But whither runs my pen?
my Muse
return,
And fall again to
mourning
over the
urn
Of this
desceased
Saint, whose
loss
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 kind?
So self-denying? such an heavenly mind?
His husbanding his time, so godly spent,
Told me h' was bound
for heaven
before
he went.
Since he's
commenc'd
above, and got
his grace,
We cannot leave him in a better place.
Yet one word more give leave for, e're I 'ave done,
Much honor'd Lady, you his
eldest Son;
Ye children all,
who put toit, would much rather,
Have chose the loss of all, then of your
Father.
Let
sorrows
surges sink, let
comfort
come,
And joy your sad and heavy hearts;
make room
For
gladness,
know ye 'ave mourned your shares,
Your dear is gone to
glory,
stay your tears.
Ye see what God hath done, and who may have
Like liberty to
take,
as he that
gave?
Submit to God,
bear
Christianly this
Cross,
He
can restore you manifold your loss.
Madam,
take comfort,
and trust God to be
A better
Husband
to you far, then
He,
And to
your virtuous Daughters, widows left,
Both,
like yourself,
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 ye all shall be
this
rather,
God make ye
better,
then your
Gracious Father.
Loquitur post funera virtus.
Ro. Cook.
An Elegy 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 would 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
honor's due,
where age white hairs did
snow;
Where
virtue,
where a
noble mind
did dwell,
Which nothing can (
beside its self
) excel.
Democritus
himself, should he but know
What caused these
tides
of tears to
over
•
flow,
The
watrish humor
in his eye (I fear)
Would melt the
Chrystaline
into a tear.
Reader,
first pay a
tear,
and then pass on,
'It is no
dry
subject we are now upon:
But hold,
God too will have
his
harvest free
From
rainy showers
of tears, as well as
we:
This
full-ear'd Wheat
of his, first
bowed
its head,
So gathered 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
dress;
Thought that too
homely, wanton;
did desire
A
persick, Syriac, Arabic
attire,
Or anymore exotic;
Parrots
seek
A
Caesar's
favor in no less then Greek:
Pardon her
soft-pac'd measures,
her delays,
She in sad broken Accents
sighing
says:
Should
sundry
Tongues, each with a diverse tone
Lament our loss, all must consent in one.
Write on the weeping Marble, here doth lie,
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 blood,
on
which
doth lie
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 myself,
eternally my
Dear,
(Distance away) draw to this bosom
near;
Lo here, thy
elder Brother,
didst not long
To see thy
Jesus?
seest thou not the
throng
Of
crowned Saints
about thee, that
rejoice
To join thee to their
Chore,
who with their
voice,
My
everlasting
praise do sing? this
sphere
Of
Ravishment,
that doth thee circle here▪
The native heat is of thy
Fathers breast,
From
whence
when first thou
sparkled'st
I thee
blest,
With 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 believed
Gospel
true? thy Lot▪
Does it not fill thy heart,
fulfill
my Oath?
Do I
delude
the sons of men, when
loath
To
mind
or
love
me, I them
woo,
and
pray
To daine
acceptance
of me, that they may
Be
well,
and
pleased
here? do 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
Would'st choose thy
walk?
these prospects here above,
And not
Lusts
snakie Groves
true
pleasure yields:
Earths
sense-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
ravished,
spring, and sing my
Dove,
Tuning
thy measures to my
eye
of
love.
Saint.
How
low
's this Chore? how
Faint's
this echo here?
Is this th'
Almighty's
praise that now I hear?
Can the
thousand thousands
raise no higher?
Jehovah,
thy acceptance I
admire:
Is all the powers of
Saints
and
Angels
join'd
Beneath thy
love,
and
glory
thus confined?
(O
love
thyself, 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
proved
The Art of
treble-voiced
Seraphims,
Join'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,
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 will bring
My
Jews-Trump
to thy set:
Chore
let us join:
Saint
and
Chore.
All
might
and
power,
transcendent
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-satisfied,
while we behold thy
Face
Fill'd with
delight,
rejoice
thou
in the
Grace
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
driven
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 dissolved,
above he gives his voice.
To a
wise
and
beauteous Lady
join'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-lined house, ever
blot, defame,
or
scar.
But let its
numerous seed,
still run along,
Till it receive
Christ's
coming, with a Song.
The Gentries
Virtues, 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, whilst 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 forever, I upon my Brest
Shall wear this
Epitaph,
and weep the rest.
Epitaph.
Here lies those Sacred Ashes, once the seat
Of Heaven-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 renowned.
Anagram. Nathaniel 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.
Nathaniel Fairclough Rector of Stalbridge in Dorcetshire.
PARENTALE, or an ELEGIE on the Highly Honorable and Right Worshipful Sir Nath. Barnardiston, Kt.
BY
Euphrat's
Flood, when Captive
Israel
sat,
Increasing
it; their Harps
inanimate
Hung
speechless
by: All
sorrows
want their
Tongues,
These
Organs
speak not,
filled
from
sighing Lungs.
Great
anger
makes a
Poet;
but the sense
Of greatest
grief,
stops flowing eloquence:
Who groans in
tune,
hath learned the
Hebrew
art
To
weep
with th'
eye;
but
bleed
not at the
heart.
My
Theam's
too great, that
Pegasus
should wear
Such
straitening Fetters;
he cannot mount the air,
Or
soar aloft,
whilst
pinion'd
is his Wing.
England
lies here; your
boundless tears
then bring,
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 pays an
eye,
that hath no
tear.
The
Academy, Country, Church,
at once,
Have lost their chiefest
Patron,
and thus groans.
Erst while
I saw a Spring ('twas
Hippocrene
)
Brim'd round about with
Sable Jet,
within
The
waters
swelled; and past their
common bounds:
Strait I drew near, toobserve, and search the
grounds
Of this
late Flood;
and silently I spy'd
The
Orphan Muses
by; all sadly cried:
And as they
wept,
the
dewy tears
that fell,
Slid to that
watery lodge,
which made it swell;
Their
Patrons death (Apollo
) caused this
woe,
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, dismayed with
fears,
Dewing
their
Bosoms;
thus fills all our
ears.
Swift
Time (Heavens Pursuivant
) straitly
summons
To th'
Lord's House,
this
Member
of the
Commons;
Thrice
chosen
Senator,
let
Ipswich
fame
How oft her streets have echoed 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
Whilst
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
fixed
by him: O joyful, Heavenly meet
Of
thousands,
Sainted by
his
means; that greet
His crowned head, whose
Crown
they are, then haste
We too, to add more
gems,
and
be so placed.
SA. FAIRECLOVGH. Fel. of Gon. and Gaius Coll.
An Elegy on that ever honored Knight, Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston.
NOt for to
scrape acquaintance
with the great,
Much less, 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 accustomed
ease;
Nor doth she now (as erst)
catch
after
wit,
And
hap'lie
sometimes had the
praise
of it.
In part,
She minds her self,
now called away,
From
lighter
studies, to a
graver
way;
In part, she thinks 'mongst
Country Clowns
to rise
In
strains
of
wit,
were but to
solaecise.
Partly
her will's in fault,
and may be too,
Though she were never so willing,
'twould not do.
Chiefly, my Muse puts on
so grave
a dress,
Because th'
occasion
calls for
seriousness.
And now she speaks, she doth not
mean
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
naught
to brag of,
but
the glory
Of their
forefathers,
blot their
fathers story.
I'd put the
Ape,
and such men both together,
That could be proud of borrowed
Peacocks feather.
But here
no sluggishness
did make a seat
Of
Grandsires glory,
there to sit complete;
But he made what he found
left by
his Sire
But as his
footstool,
that should raise him
higher.
And as the
circled glass
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 another's breast,
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
virtues
that have run ith'
name,
And
hence
to fetch one stone, and
thence
another,
To catch at
this
in that man,
that
in toother;
This were to
go about,
as he should stray
From hence to
London,
should take
York
in's way.
We'l make a
shorter cut
of it by far,
While he
alone
both
compass
is, and
star;
And though our
Logic-mongers
teach for truth,
That
accidents
must never dare (
forsooth
)
To change their
soil
(but like some
fettered Ass,
Inclos'd in walls,
must always feed on grass;
Or as we read it was with
Shimei
)
But stir from
subjects
once, they
needs must die.
Yet here we find those
virtues all do dwell,
In which each Sire of
his
did most
excel;
And having
lest
their former soil, yet
more
Did
thrive
in him, then e're they did before.
So
well,
(though
Logic
scoff) without correction,
Divinity maintains her resurrection,
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 mind thyself, 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 needest 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 toit, by his forged story,
That, that damned
caitiff,
is a Saint in glory;
And thereby make even
Boys
and
Girls
to point,
And say,
The Preachers conscience's out of joint.
No, speak he most▪ then can; there is no fear▪
It should
offend
the
tend'redst conscienc'd
ear.
No
new truths
can be preached, 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 only
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 never learned by th'
Excise.
Nor did he (
Proteus
like) to all men's view,
Change his
religions face,
still for a
new,
As th'
old
grew out of credit; he never made▪
Religions change
to be his
gainful
trade.
'Twas
Conscience
made him
Pious,
no
design
To rob
thee (gasping Church)
of what was
thine.
He deemed that which the
new Saints
of our Age,
Count a main piece of
Piety, Sacrilege.
But peace my
Muse;
thou'dst
fame
to th'later times,
And clothe this
Heroes actions
in thy rhimes;
Thou longest to bring
partic'lars
on the stage,
And wouldest; but that the
growing Peers
o'th' age
Being set o'th'
counter part,
would surely raise
Thine
Elegiake
strains, to
Satyr
lays,
And make them speak
so loud,
that without doubt,
They'd doom thee toit, 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 only men, but
stones
might mourn.
The
Rock
itself, 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 even 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 God's favorite.
His
dearest darling,
and all
men's delight.
Who whilst he lived with us,
out-shined
in
grace
The rest of men,
now sees God face to face:
When that the Emp'ror
Titus
did depart:
What
cloudy looks, moist 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, toour loss, though to his gain.
The same may we take up;
God's darling's gone.
'It is for his good, though our affliction.
Well
mourn
we may, as in some silent
grove,
Whilst he in
heavenly joys,
triumphs above.
Nathaniel
he was, God's gift to us;
A Gem, a precious Pearl esteemed, and thus
The greater was our joy; but now deceased,
The more our grief, and sorrows are increased.
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
renowned,
Not only
living,
but when
dead,
were
crowned.
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 lived, most
worthy
to be crowned,
In whom so many
graces
did abound.
A
King
he died,
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, couldest find 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 doest thou think shall we
Deport ourselves, 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.
Lo here a
Spectacle
we see,
To teach us all,
what we must be.
Wouldst know thy
metal?
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 ere 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 wrapped beyond themselves they run,
And for their guide, among the
nine
they
choose,
A fullen, melancholy, pensive
Muse,
To show that
bitter
stream of
Pegasus,
That prompted
Naso
with
De Tristibus:
Of this they largely drinking
to their fill,
Did into far more
bitter tears
distill,
Sounding aloud, in hideous lamentation,
As when
Plague, Sword,
and
Famine
fright a Nation.
I
wondering,
curiously the cause desired,
Which so
much wit,
and so much
grief required;
'Twas answered in a
sad,
and
doleful
voice,
By one whose
sorrows
did surmount his
noise.
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 relief,
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
gain,
Many for
fear,
and more for
hunger,
strain
The music of their
pliant, giddy
passion,
To any humor 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
Funeral show,
If not a
Party,
yet
Spectator
go;
There was the
much lamented herse
let down,
In hope of resurrection to a
crown;
In
silent vault
confined 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 Magdalene
by th'
Sepulcher,
Fixing her eyes upon the
greedy grave,
Which human flesh
unsatisfi'd
doth crave;
As if in that
cold bed
she'd rather lie,
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 refrain, but these tears lent,
As
drops to th' Sea,
their sorrow to augment.
Sure he was very good, who when life fail'd,
Left so much
wealth
behind, and's yet bewail'd;
Whose
heir
can slightly look
upon his gold,
And wishit ith'
live Testators hand
untold?
But grieve not
Sirs,
nor envy 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 Funeral Elegy on the Right Worshipful Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston.
WHen
Abner
died, King
David
then could say,
A great man fell in Israel that day.
But how may
we
lament, to see
God's hand,
Thus snatch this
great and good
man from our Land?
This our right Worthy, Sir
Nathaniel▪
Who did not suffer
guile in him to dwell;
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 shined 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
What can we judge
in reason
to remain,
But desolation? yet great
Jove
can still
Extract
much good
from greatest sense
of ill.
Near
forty years
hath he most glorious been,
In
strengthening virtue,
and
suppressing sin;
Of all that knew him was he most
renowned;
And now by God that made him
is he crowned,
And in
immortal glory
shall remain,
Until that day that
all shall rise again:
And then with
Christ his Savior
shall appear,
To judge all those that were
Apostates
here.
John Soame, Gent.
An Elegy on the much lamented death of Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston.
WEre I endued with that
learned skil,
To mourn
thy doleful
death,
with such a quil
As might it
grave in lines,
as fair, as those
Thou wrote'st
thy noble life
in; and compose
Each
syllable
by so exact a square,
As that whereby thy
actions
formed were;
Then might I such an Elegy 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
lived
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
Wont to receive th'
influence
of that fire
Of prudent Piety, which from thy breast
Sent forth
most glittering rays,
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 cannot 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 speak so highly
in thy praise,
As thy true worth
requires, may chance to raise▪
In some men's minds
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 renowned a
Heroe
calls to speak;
Somewhat I will say, though but in
accents weak,
And yet
but little will I speak,
and that
Not in thy praise;
(Reader, doest start hereat?)
The reason's this;
Not that I envy thee,
That, which is known of all, thy
due
to be;
But that thy worth far doth my Pen transcend.
And
he that poorly praise doth discommend.
Not to disparage then
thy worth
in Lays,
Too mean 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 honored Knight, Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston.
A
Grave!
a
Funeral!
my Muse,
no toys
Become this Scene,
no fancies like decoyes,
To tangle Readers
in a pleasing maze
Of
lofty words,
wrapped in
Luxuriant phrase:
These are not
seasonable,
now our verse
Can naught else speak, 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 news, a sad disastrous thought.
Stand off,
come not too near,
give air,
give breath,
I faint to speak of late
unwieldy death,
Snatcht not a
Philip,
but
Nathaniel
hence,
An
Israelite,
that of no
guile
had sense,
One whose rare piety that's much admired,
Speak him
an earthly Angel,
though attir'd
In Robes of Flesh;
one of a
higher
mind,
Then could to
lower
regions be confined,
Whose
heaven-born soul
did still
in contemplation,
Passe over those
heavenly joys,
whose adumbration
He fully now enjoys; 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-robbed
of flesh:
There rests this holy
Saint;
what heretofore
He could but see in
part,
and wish for more;
H'ath now attained: O rare
state of perfection,
The end of
hope, joys center, Saints election.
Nor did his
strict religion
only 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 over his Tomb,
Shall kiss the
Earth,
in whose most happy Womb
He lies
enclosed;
and to his sacred
Urn,
As to a
Delphic Oracle
shall turn.
But stop my
Muse,
his
V
•
rtues
so transcend
Thy weak expression, that perhaps in the' end
Thy mind may be
mis-deemed,
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 Virtues pass,
Prais'd by themselves, engrav'd in firmest Brass,
Which time shall never wear out, nor
malice blot,
But
Fame
shall render blameless
without spot.
Yet this admit, the
more
his
Virtues
shone,
Our loss the
greater,
and the
more
our moan.
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.
Whilst we
poor mortals
groveling here below,
Fall short of that his
praise,
we fain would show.
This only 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 rhetoric,
and a Child though weak,
Knows how to
weep,
before it learns to speak.
I have my end, although my style be rude;
Who do not study
wit,
but
gratitude.
This
Noble Gentleman,
when first I came
Into the world, bestowed 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
Whilest here: But now he in those
heights
doth dwell,
That nothing, but an
Angels
tongue can tell.
My
Infant-Muse
oppressed 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
never made good
Poet, Love the best.
O! how much rather,
if th'all ordering hand
Of
Providence Divine
(which none withstand)
Had so disposed, 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 ye
Galen
and
Hippocrates?
Thou
Paracelsus,
who didst vainly please
Thy self, to boast with thine
Elixar's
art
To make a man
immortal?
couldest 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!)
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 only 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 relics;
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 will indent deformed obliquities.
Yet his
clear eye,
and
steady hand
never drew,
But
strait lines
from the center, for he knew
And learned 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
proficience
with him in this art,
This
heavenly art
of living well; which part
He much adorned, 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 only brings
That great
advantage
(after all his care
And travel) now possessed, without all fear
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 in the' storm by
Land
and
Sea,
Yet he a
calm
and
sweet tranquility
Found in himself; as one that
swom to Land,
Having scaped
shipwreck,
doth in the'
Harbor
stand
Safe
and
secure;
yet viewing with sad eyes
The
Monuments
of
Neptunes
cruelties:
Or he whose ship from some
far Country
bound,
Laden with
Gold
and
Spice,
at length hath found
The
wished Port,
prays that his Friends may see,
The like returns
advantage;
so did he,
Having received his lading home secure,
Prayes God, the
States
and
Churches
to ensure.
But whilst we mind his
gain,
we value not
Our
loss,
nor can: The Saints indeed have got
One that will bear a part with them, whilst we
Are left to sing a doleful Elegy.
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 something which we see; but for the rest
Behind the Curtain,
Cannot be expressed.
So did that
Artist
when he came to draw
The
Parents
grief, for
Iphigenia,
Cast over a veil, (the rest within made good
By an
Aposiopesis
understood)
Then draw the
Curtain
here (my
Muse
) and tell,
The World thou canst 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 woe,
(
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 woeful 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 complete their Parl'ament.
Saxa ruunt Mausoli invisa, ruunt{que} Colossi
Mole sua; & si quae porro Monumenta vetustas
Condidit, illa abolevit edax; vel quicquid Apelles
Pinxerit, ant si quid Lysippus duxerit olim,
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 sermon 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 been notos:
Nam mihi nunc superas heu dissociabilis; oras
Lenta nimis vela impellent suspiria nostra
Hasce iterum infidas, ut frustrà refer 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
easy
for to write an Elegy
On common fates,
great sorrows stupefy;
A
toe
or
finger
lost, we can complain,
But wounds received in
liver, heart,
or
brain,
(The parts that be
architectonical
)
Oppress the sense, we should
complain
withal.
A cask that naught, but
the light air doth hold,
Sounds far more shrilly, then one
filed with gold;
Fleet streams are clamorous,
the deepest joys
And sorrows, their own
depth
do keep from noise.
Our loss so vast, as would
a country
break,
We want both
help
to
bear,
and
strength
to
speak.
What isit to hear a
wife,
or
children
cry,
Should such a
father,
such a
husband
die?
Or a few
mournful Scholars
make this moan,
Our-dear
Mecaenas,
our best friend is gone;
Th' expenses of a sorrow that's
thus large,
Should be borne out
at a whole Nations charge;
A
public tax of grief,
whole subsidies
Of tears, and freely given, will 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 silenced other Rivals, silence Death?
Shall
the graves prison
your free choice prevent,
And break a
privilege of Parliament?
Tell him, he hath your suffrages, least we
Judge
you have
lost your voice,
as well 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
speak,
yet
sigh
thus out your sense,
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 lived by rule Divine, and human Laws,
And did
not dread the power,
nor
court th' applause
Of the wild multitude, but firmly stood
To his
first principles,
and those were good;
And as his Tenants, so we may be bold
To say,
his honors
and
estate
were old.
H'was born to both, had no need to desire
To warm his hands, by's neighbors house on fire.
His plentiful revenues did not rise
To higher rates, since
taxes
and
excise;
Fames trump
sound's forth his
ancestors renown,
When th'
Henries,
and the
Edwards
wore the
crown;
Mushrooms of Gentry
can straight from a
blew
Be dipt in scarlet,
which is honors hue,
Yet in his
birth
and
blood
he found a stain,
Till
'twas innobled,
and
he
born again.
You
reverend Divines
go on to tell
His following story, whom he loved so well.
You are
God's Heralds,
and by place designed,
T'
emblazon
his most noble
heaven-born
mind;
His faith most vigorous, though crossed by sense,
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.
The rage of enemies now grown so stout,
He judged a
blaze,
before their
light
went out;
His
zeal
tow'ring aloft to heavenly things,
Yet was
discreet, had eyes, as well 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 witness, yea
America:
In all these he enjoyed the name, and
style
Of a true Israelite, and free from guile,
Though not from sin, yet in a Gospel sense,
Sincerity is counted innocence.
This, at his death, caused 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
sympathize;
'Twere cruelty to strain a
bleeding
sore,
Instead of stanching to provoke it more.
Oh, dry your tears up, whilst you still
complain;
You only mind
your loss,
but not
his gain;
Wereit not more love for to rejoice, 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 naught but
Elegies,
his tongue
Is now a chanting forth
a marriage song.
Grieve not at his new honor lately sent,
To sit ith'
upper house of Parliament,
where all three States agree, and none doth strive
For Privileges,
or
Prerogative;
Before
whose
bar other great Courts
shall come,
To
give up
their accounts, and hear their doom:
In this the worlds
supreme 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 loved flower,
That spreads
the yellow curtain
of her bower
At his fair rising,
closes it again
When he declineth westward to the main:
Even so should we, (our
Phoebus
gone to bed,)
Shut in our joys, and hang a drooping head:
Our lips in
sables
dress,
close mourners
all,
Our tongues are to pronounce a funeral;
A
Barmston's
funeral; recall that name,
A
name so old,
'twil fit the
trump
of fame;
A
name too heavy
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-tied, and must
lisp
it forth;
To score each virtue on thy
noble tomb
Would strike
invention,
and the
Muses
dumb.
What
Choir of well-breathed Lungs
screw'd never
so high,
Can reach the
Ela
of that harmony,
That did
concenter
in thy pious breast,
Warb'ling forth
Airs,
such as the
Sphears
might feast;
Sweet consort!
where the
Graces
tune their throats,
And virtues chant their
Polyphonian
notes,
Striving t' excel in
those diviner Lays,
And crown their Master with
coelestial
bayes.
But oh!
we lack an
Orpheus
in our ears
That might distinguish
(they are stopped with tears)
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Each lofty strain; each
Rapsody
resound,
And take each
quaver
at the first rebound;
Our sense is dull, and cannot comprehend
The words they breathed, 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
Heaven-borne tones,
And be content to spel their
mind
in groans.
Sure 'twas his
Music act,
he's gone from hence
To
Heavens-Kings Chapel
there for to
commence
Doctor
in
glory, and hath left us here
To celebrate
his feast,
our funeral cheer.
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 palate 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 virtues which were
inmates
in his breast,
Hover about, now they have lost their nest;
And fear lest they who had a cage of gold
Be forced to wander (charity's so cold)
Nay beg for harbor,
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 ear with
elogies,
And thus extol their patron to the skies.
What
soaring pinion's
able to express
That well ground
constancy,
the sole impress
That ruled thy actions, and as firmly stood
As doth the
Oke
the Monarch of the wood;
Whose stately towering top scorns to strike sail,
(Like to the Poplar) to each
whiffling gale,
And dance a
quaver
with a trembling bough,
When
Boreas
plays a
crochet
on his brow?
Men nowadays in such a posture stand,
That's ready to receive each base command:
Blow what wind will,
like the wind-serving Vane,
They will comply, then as you were again.
Mechanic spirits
with their supple joints
Can ring the changes to a thousand points,
And please their ears too with that
Stygian sound,
That's harsh enough even
Babel
to confound.
But
Barm'ston
moved in an higher sphere,
Disdain'd to crouch unto degenerous fear,
And on the
Hinges
turn his Patron knee,
To dance the humors 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 honor may
Heavens-broad-backed 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 crossed)
An ancient
Pillar,
whose firm
basis
stood
Supporters of the
truth,
and what was good,
Even when surrounded with the dangerous seas
Of Errors,
••
hisms, and Metamorphoses;
Call it
Seth’s
pillar, wonder, and vouchsafe
To read th' inscription in this Epitaph;
Behold
Nathaniel,
says sacred style,
An Isra'lite
indeed, in whom's no guile;
An holy vessel
tunned with noble breath,
By Surgeons broached, to be drawn out
by death.
Mirrour of
goodness,
and of
constancy,
God's gift, our loss,
within this vault doth lie.
Quote, maesta pedes? an quo via ducit, in aedem?
Musa▪ perantiquum quid petis aegra locum?
Forte sepulchrales men's 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 modo 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 inde 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.
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
David's
Worthies, God himself recount
In
Writ Divine,
which doth
human surmount.
If
Christ,
the anointing of his holy Head
Deign'd, as an honor done tohis
Funeral Bed;
And to requite this precious
Mary's
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.
(Whilst 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 sense,
That in the Tomb there seems no difference
'Twixt just and unjust,
Pebble
and the
Gem.
Here
virtue
seems to wear no
Diadem.
'It is 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 never be won
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 betrayed:)
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,
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
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
Christi
Respectu{que} Dei: sacrato sanguine venas,
Diluvians, causa est magni Theodore 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 Elegy on the Right Worshipful Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston.
HEre's one that was an
Isra'lite
sincere,
In whom all noble virtues did appear;
A faithful
Patriot,
one that ever stood
Firme to
God's Cause,
and to his
Countries
good;
And yet by cruel death's impartial hand
Laid level with the dust:
Who can withstand
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 color
in her leaves appear,
Age knows no spring, and death will not restore
His stolen goods,
till time shall be no more.
O happy those that do betimes begin
To love Christ Jesus,
and to leave off sin;
To walk in holy ways with
Simeon
old,
That in the arms of
faith
their
Savior
hold.
The life of such is blest, their
death
much more,
For then they rest from labor, not before.
Thus (worthy
Barnardiston
) thou art blest,
Who from thy labors 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 yield to fate,
And
few
such left to guide the affairs of State:
But yet our grief for thee shall not proceed,
'It is charity to give to those that need,
That's to ourselves;
our miseries and fears
Require not only
floods,
but
seas
of tears.
Therefore for thee we'll cease our lamentation,
And takit up for
ourselves,
and for the Nation;
Though for our loss
we cannot choose
but grieve,
This comfort shall our passions yet relieve;
That heaven 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 sum) 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.
Religions honos venerabilis, artis amicus
Defunctus jacet hic▪ titulis & honor 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 Wonder not that
Barnardiston's
dead,
But rather that he spun so long a thread;
Sure 'tis a
sound
hath echoed through the earth,
Christ's
verdict on
Nathaniel's
second birth.
Behold an
Isra'lite:
'Twas then a wonder,
But now the
Glowworm
times that we live under,
Write such men
Miracles,
and they we know
Are ceased, dead, and buried long ago.
We would enjoyed 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.
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉 .
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
,
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
.
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
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.
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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
Eques auratus, & vir vere aureus,
Sine fuco Israelita, & abs{que} dolo:
Ipsemet enim Nathaniel:
Decus Patria, & familiae antiquissimae,
Quae inter trophaea sua hoc jactitat,
Quod talem peperit.
Amor cleri & Patrocinium:
Orthodoxa Religions ingens exemplar & columen,
Veris Evangeliti Ministris tutela & praesidium,
Apud eos dum vixerit,
Hi omnes ornarunt calculo
Mortuum,
Lugubri Epitaphio.
Quippe quod 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
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
.
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
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.
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 fraud 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 maxim, splendor
Et columen patriae, & religions 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 quod 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 modo lumina flumina; cordum
Hinc gemitus, dolor hinc, quod pius ill jacet.
Qui steteras à parte Dei, dum vivus adesses,
Mortuus aethereas ingrediare domos.
Miles ut emeritus Christi splendescis honor,
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.
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 honor,
Mentis candores pingere nemo potest.
Effigiem verae virtutis nobilitatis
Candoris nivei religions 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, men's 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.
Inque 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 ill 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.