A Pearl in an Oyster Shell, Elegy – Poem 7
An Elegy upon the Death of that humble and holy Man of God, Mr. Thomas Hall.
WHat ayl'd pale Death in haſt to Hall away
Our reverend Paſtor to a bed of Clay! Tell me (bleſt Saint) in ſooth, how couldſt So great a Maſter in Divinity?
Could not (at leaſt) our ſighs, our pray'rs thou die
Prevail, that thou might'ſt live old Neſtors and tears
Injurious Fate! becauſe thou couldſt not get years?
The Pearl, Would'ſt therefore ſpoil the Cabinet?
What wilt thou put no diff'rence 'twixt faces?
Not ſpare th' Saints for their tranſcendent graces?
Sure thou art neither blear'd, nor brib'd, nor blind,
Thou tak'ſt the beſt and leav'ſt the worſt behind.
T'ſhould ſeem from Death ther's no preſcription then,
The Preacher dies as well as other men.
Had I but tears to ſpare, that are not ſpent
Upon my ſins! I would give Sorrow vent;
I'd drench the earth wherein his body lies,
And fill the air with Lamentable cries!
I'd wet his Coffin, and would waſh his Tomb,
Till I another Niobe become!
But ſtay (my Muſe) what means this Lamentation?
Sure his was not a Death but a tranſlation;
H'walk'd with God, and he hath took him hence,
Not to his loſs, but to his recompence:
And yet he lives, methinks I ſee him ſtill,
In's doing good, eſchewing what is ill;
'Specially in th' works he hath left behind,
The pious product of's Prophetick mind.
London look to't, he foretold thy burning,
Thy Plague and poverty for not returning;
If Gods Houſe be not built within th' Nation,
Yours, and ours will be deſolation.
Seeing thoſe City-Comets that God ſent,
As in fiery Chariot t' Heaven he went:
Were't not Ambition, I could wiſh that he,
Had lay'd the lap of's Mantle on me.
Richard Moore.
An Epitaph upon Mr. Thomas Hall.
WIthin the period of Davids Span,
Behold the Sepulture of this Grave man;
Who whiles he liv'd, fear'd not th'face of any
Good counſel living, dying, gave t' many;
And though he chaſtly led a ſingle life,
Held his School's Children, and his Church his Wife:
To which he did impart moſt liberally,
His Books in's life unto her Library;
The reſidue almoſt of what he had,
He gave the poor to make their faces glade.
Th' heaven born Jewel's gone; the Grave contains,
Within her womb, only thoſe few remains,
Which though entombed now, abide they may,
Unto the laſt reſurrection day;
The Soul will then again reſume this duſt
To the habitation of the Juſt.
R. M.
Ʋpon the Death of that dear Servant of Jeſus Chriſt Mr. Thomas Hall.
THou need'ſt no Trophees to adorn thy Herſe,
Thy virtues ſerve t' imbalm thy Name in Verſe;
And this I'll ſay, ſince death hath ſtopt thy breath,
Thy life was Prieſt-like, Prince-like was thy Death.
In Truths defence thou waſt a brazen wall,
'Gainſt execrable hereſies a Mawl:
Witneſs thy Guards, which ſtill unrouted ſtand
'Gainſt Tom Collier, and that ſooty band:
What Guard the Font, the Schools, and Pulpit too,
Which of your Mothers Sons have done like you?
But yet thy Comments writ on ſacred ſtory,
Moſt juſtly may deſerve the greater Glory;
On th' Prophets thoſe thy Lucubrations,
And thoſe on Paul Doctor of th' Nations
Live, and thy other works of Charity,
Now thou art dead, & with God, follow thee.
Thoſe thou haſt begot, cry out, my Father!
Which by Sage advice to God did'ſt gather,
Some of all ſorts of theſe, it doth them eaſe,
To trail a tear at thy ſad Obſequies.
With blubred cheeks and countenance wan,
They ſit and ſing this Epicedium:
Let ſad April ceaſe her wonted ſhowers,
And mornful May forbear t'yield its flowers,
Since this fair Flower's cropt, and with dry eye,
So many do ſlight this ſad Deſtiny.
Richard Moore.
Ʋpon the much-lamented Death of Mr. John Ley, who was Chair-man of the Aſſembly of Divines, and late Rector of Solyhull. His Character.
THe grace of God which in thy name did ſhine,
Was a Divine Spark, like generous Wine,
Which was infus'd in thee without aſſwage,
Into thy heart and parts even in old age;
Which ſhews to all impartial Judges how,
That thou haſt kept the good wine until now.
How many Learned within the Nation,
Like Conduits run wine at th' Coronation,
Whoſe parts ſoon flag, grow flat, and faint, and waſt,
Whil'ſt thine like wine on th' LEE, when old do laſt.
Like M…aſon an old Diſciple's, rather
Like Moſes was this Reverend Father;
For in old age, he had a Sp'rit like him,
His ſtrength did not abate, nor's eyes wax dim;
His Pentateuch in th' tipes was partly ſeal'd,
Till by this Pen unvail'd, the truth reveal'd.
The Chriſtian Sabbath was by him maintain'd
Againſt all ſorts, who would have it prophan'd.
A learned Schoolman, much for moderation,
One able to give Laws for diſputation;
He was skill'd in th' Tongues, curious at his Pen,
A moſt juſt Cenſor, both of Books & Men:
He was a Load-ſtone in's lovely Carri'ge,
An Adamant for unconquer'd courage:
He'd ſpeak the truth where ere he had bin,
And lov'd the perſon but reprov'd the ſin:
More than moſt are, from paſſion h' was free,
More mov'd to pity, than moſt are was he.
He weekly made proviſion for th' Poor,
That conſtantly attended at his Door:
He'd ſympathize with ſuch as were in bonds,
And had great skill in ſetting broken bones:
A rare Caſuiſt, and hath been ſent for far
Toth'ſick, to ſee what their diſtemperswere,
And how to heal them, by his heav'nly Art
H'hath powred balm to many a broken heart:
And that which crowns the reſt, is yet behind,foreign
H' was high in parts, and lowly in his mind.
Like God he had reſpect to men,
After the Good he ſaw in them;
This was the chief ingredient for which,
He prized any perſon poor or rich;
And ſuch as theſe, if they had need of them;
Should have his heart, his horſe his purſe, his pen.
I wiſh no worſe to's Succeſſor than he,
Juſt ſuch another Rector there may be.
Richard Moore.
Ʋpon the much-lamented Death of Mr. Burdal, Miniſter of the Goſpel at Walſhall in Stafford-ſhire.
WHat art thou dead too, another Burgeſs, a healing Barnabas, and Bo'nerges;
Who could'ſt convert thy ſelf to every form
Of ſp'rit and ſpeech, thy flock to reform?
When Rhet'rick and Metaphyſicks would not do't,
Thou ſought'ſt by ſound words, to woo them to it:
Thy Speech was above Books or humane Art,
Thou melt'ſt the ſtone in many frozen heart,
More hard than that thou fear'dſt would thee torment,
Till thy laſt ſand was run and breath was ſpent.
Theſe pains did not prevent thy powr'ful Preaching,
Or travel of thy mind in th' conſtant teaching;
And as thou trad'ſt with God in pray'rs and tears,
He gave thee a return above thy fears.
Thou dy'd'ſt in th' fiftieth year, with little pain,
And an eternal Life in Heaven did'ſt gain.
Richard Moore.
Ʋpon the Death of that humble and holy Servant of Jeſus Chriſt Mr. Henry Field, born at Kings-norton, bred up under Mr. Thomas Hall, and ſent to Pembroke-Colledg in Oxford, and from thence removed to Chriſts-Colledg in Cambridg, where he was Fellow, and ſo preferred by the Honourable Earl of Mancheſter to be Paſtor of Uttington in Lincoln-ſhire.
GReat was the Jewel hid within this field,
A Pearl more precious, than the earth doth yield;
One grace ſurpaſſeth Gold and Gems as far,
As the Sun ſhining doth the brighter Star.
This parti-colour'd coat wrought ſuch debate,
And caus'd thy brethrens envy, & their hate:
That from thy place and people thou waſt ſent,
To ſuffer ſharp and ſevere 'priſonment:
Far worſe than that of Joſeph in the pit,
Who afterwards was ſold to th' Iſhmaelite;
And by that Merchant-man, who came from far,
To the Kings Provoſt-Martial Potiphar;
Where he was proſperous, yet by the wile
Of her, who would by ſin his ſoul defile,
Was ſtript of's coat, to keep his conſcience▪
His feet were fettr'd for his continence.
Tell me (bleſs'd Saint) what, was not this thy fate,
If thou waſt not far more unfortunate?
For in his bonds, good Joſeph was more free,
Who favour found, & was loos'd honourably
But't was otherwiſe with thee (dear brother)
Who waſt ſent from one priſon to th' other,
'Till death by a Habeas Corpus did remove
Thy fleſh to th'earth, thy ſoul to heaven above.
In thoſe thy bonds thou waſt ſo comfortable
As made adverſity amiable;
For Divine Truth was girdle to thy loyns,
And uprightneſs the breſt-plate of thy reins;
A Faith moſt firm, a ſhield of thy defence,
And an incomparable patience:
Hope was the only helmet of thy head,
The Goſpels peace did light thee to thy bed.
Thy feet thus ſhod, thou feareſt no ſurprize,
But could'ſt defend thy ſelf 'gainſt injuries.
Thou having gotten theſe to good degree,
Obtain'ſt a conqueſt over Calamity.
Sore were thy life's troubles, ſweet thy reſt,
Thy ſmel's as of a Field that God hath bleſt.
Richard Moore.
Ʋpon the Death of many Reverend Miniſters ſince Bartholomew, 1662.
IF paſſion be a ſpur to poetry,
Sure it ſhould teach me for to verifie,
Were there but Sympathy, who can but weep,
To ſee ſo many Paſtors laid to ſleep?
What ſhall the poor Sheep do, now theſe are dead,
But dread likewiſe they ſhall be ſcattered?
The Lord hath ſmitten many Cedars tall,
How ſhould poor poplars chuſe but fear a fall?
Are Iſraels chariots and horſemen gone?
How ſhould we chuſe but weep, and make great moan?
Old Aſh foreſeeing what a dearth would be,
Of Sions Seers, fell, fell down ſuddenly?
Although it proved his death, yet would he grieve,
And buried was on Barthol'mew Eve.
As father Ely bowed his aged head,
Firſt when the news came, thy two ſons are dead:
But when he heard once that the Ark was loſt,
It brake his heart, his neck, his life it coſt.
Vines, Naulton, Cawdry, Calamy went hence,
Like Nard and Camphire, trees of Frankincenſe;
Still ſending forth their aromatick ſcent,
Till twice extinct from us, to Heaven they went:
Learned Vines went away as in a ſleep,
And Zealous Naulton, who was wont to weep;
Calamy for London he loved ſo well,
When in the Fire he heard her paſſing-Bell.
Cawdry crowded on, Caryl, White and Strong,
Gouge, Gataker, Hill, whitaker and Young,
Gravely, judicious Burges and Hall,
Who was Tom-tell-troth, Baker and Burdall;
Pale death, why do'ſt thou make ſuch haſte,
And the true Churches Treaſure waſte?
Tell me in truth, what is there no reprieve,
That ſuch renowned Worthies might ſurvive?
See that a Superſedeas thou grant,
That ſuch the Clergies benefit may'nt want:
Though thou accoſteſt them with ſwifteſt wing,
I'me well aſſured thou haſt loſt thy ſting;
They're now made more than conquerors ſince dead,
And are triumphant, who were conquered:
Their Captain Chriſt hath got the Victory,
And ſoon (O Death) will make an end of thee;
In the mean time, thou canſt not ſurely kill
A Child of God, but cure him of his ill:
His Soul's above thy reach, and in a trice
When once diſmiſs'd ſhall mount to Paradice,
Nor hurt the Body, only lay't to bed
In th' Grave or Coffin, where it's buried.
RICHARD MOORE.
De Immortalitate.
BRight Marble, nor the gilded Monunuments
Of valiant Heroes, nor the rare Contents
Of wealthy Monarchs ſhall out-laſt thy fame,
Immortal Scholar of eternal name:
Neither ſhall time, thy praiſes e'r divide,
As learned yet as e'r was on our ſide.
Fierce Mars his Sword may Statues overturn,
And wealthy Cities into Aſhes burn,
Spoil and deface the works of coſtly plates,
High Spires and Temples prized at dear rates;
Yet cannot blur, nor theſe thy Works o'return
Immortal Hall, who ſleepeſt in thine Urn:
Art dead, do'ſt ſpeak by Books thou'ſt left behind,
Sight to the faithful, eyes unto the blind,
Bright Orient Pearls, to light through miſty vales,
O're gloomy Mountains, and obſcureſt dales.
When Kingdoms are o'return'd like Troys ſad Town,
The brighteſt Gem thy lofty front ſhall crown,
Poſterity Halls learned Name ſhall boaſt▪
When this our Iſle and Europe quite is loſt.
Aeternitati Comparatum omne tempus breve.
Popham Gardiner.
An Epitaph on the never-to-be-forgotten Divine Mr. Thomas Hall.
STay Paſſenger in this cold duſty Urn,
Read carefully, in reading ſee thou learn
Life's brevity, the ſhortneſs of mans days,
How ſoon his glory fadeth and decays;
How ſoon his honour's brought unto the Grave,
How ſoon the worms their ſatisfaction have:
What does his Learning him at all avail,
When once his vital Spirits dying fail.
If literature could free learn'd Men from death,
This Golgotha and dormentorious earth,
Halls Skeleton ſhould never yet have found,
Who did with copious works ſo well abound:
Genius of art, thy loſs we do lament,
Mellifluous Orator who ſtill time ſpent
In reading, ſeeking, hearing ſapience;
But now alas from us he is ſnatcht hence:
That makes us weep, weeping we do deplore,
Tears blur our writings, we can write no more.
foreign.
Life's Shortneſs.
Life's a bubble
Full of trouble,
And a vapour
Or a tapour:
Life's a flower
Laſts an hour,
Soon it blaſteth
Sooner waſteth.
Then think how ſoon Mans pleaſures fly away,
Since all his life-times but a winters day;
Like to the flower that with the Suns upriſe
His bud unfolds, and in the ev'ning dies;
His ſwift concurrent motions like th' Sun
With winged paces ſuddenly are gone.
Then think on God, on griſly death's ſtrong hand,
How thy poor ſoul at Gods juſt bar muſt ſtand;
Therefore prepare, his aid ſee thou implore,
When that thou com'ſt his bar to ſtand before.
foreign, Solon.
Have God in mind, him ſerve with filial fear,
And think how ſoon thy dying time is near;
Lord ſhall my ſoul when body it doth die
Lord-liking climb the heavens Canopie?
Then farewel Earth,
Place of my Birth,
Adieu vain Pleaſures,
Heaven yieldeth Treaſures,
Far better than this tottring Stage doth yield,
Where we can't act, but preſently are kill'd.
O griſly pale-fac't death why ſo unkind,
To take him hence, and leave me here behind;
Becauſe I am not ripe, too green of years
To full this Corn-field of deſtroying tares;
If t' were not ſo, thou wouldeſt take me hence
To Heaven above, thy dear's ones recompence;
Where Saints do triumph when the prize they've won,
When this my body may out-ſhine the Sun,
When Moſes-like I view the three in one.
FINIS.