Suffolks Tears, Part 5 – Part 7
Sir Nathaniel Barnardiſton, his Hallelujah,
Saint.
THrice holy Lord, at thy right hand I ſee
The Incenſe pillars up aſcending be
From thy moſt precious bloud, on which doth lye
The Rooſe, and hang the Pavement of this high
And glorious Court, by them brought up I ſtand
Before thy face, expecting thy command.
Almighty.
Drop of my ſelfe, eternally my Dear,
(Diſtance away) draw to this boſome near;
Lo here, thy elder Brother, did'ſt not long
To ſee thy Jeſus? ſeeſt thou not the throng
Of crowned Saints about thee, that rejoyce
To joyn thee to their Chore, who with their voyce,
My everlasting praiſe do ſing? this ſphear
Of Raviſhment, that doth thee circle here▪
The native heat is of thy Fathers breſt,
From whence when firſt thou ſparkled'ſt I thee blest,
VVith my unknown delight, and love; to me,
Thou art not ſtrange, but from eternity
Thou always preſent wert▪ behold thy name
Deeply in-laid upon the Covenant frame
Of my Free Grace, that Archive Archy-type▪
And Index of this Court, the firſt grand Pipe,
Conveighing down my love unto my Son,
Through him, and all his Goſpel veins, to run
Into th' elect, thoſe Gulphs of love; find'ſt not
My half beleeved Goſpel true? thy Lot▪
Does it not fill thy heart, fulfill my Oath?
Doe I delude the ſons of men, when loath
To mind or love me, I them wooe, and pray
To daine acceptance of me, that they may
Be wel, and pleaſed here? doe I deſerve
That ſlight and ſcorn, that duſt and aſhes ſerve
Me daily with? the Leprous ſcales of ſin,
Have they more weight of joy then what's within
The ſpangles of thy Crown? which of the two,
The lower wilderneſs of thorns and woe,
Or this eternal gallery of love
VVould'ſt chuſe thy walk? theſe proſpects here above,
And not Luſts ſnakie Groves true pleaſure yeelds:
Earths ſence-inſpiring glances in May-fields
Cauſe but an ulcerous Ich; thoſe leaps of ſprite
Men think they feel in earthly loves delight,
Are here indeed the ſouls eternal dance,
Rais'd by the dartings of my countenance;
Look and be raviſh'd, ſpring, and ſing my Dove,
Tuning thy meaſures to my eye of love.
Saint.
How low's this Chore? how Faint's this eccho here?
Is this th' Almighties praiſe that now I heare?
Can the thouſand thouſands raiſe no higher?
Jehovah, thy acceptance I admire:
Is all the powers of Saints and Angels joyn'd
Beneath thy love, and glory thus confin'd?
(O love thy ſelfe, my God) were this a place,
Tears ſhould reflect thy beams upon my face:
Canſt thou not make a Temple higher roof'd,
wherein on louder Organs may be prov'd
The Art of treble-voiced Seraphims,
Joyn'd with deep Accent of wing'd Cherubims?
But neither I, nor theſe, alas can raiſe
Ought elſe but love; Lord reckon that thy praiſe.
And I am glad th'art great beyond our ſongs,
Becauſe we feel thee good, beyond our Tongues,
And ſince thou ſmil'ſt to hear thy Nurc'ry ſing,
In broken Notes, their Fathers name, I'll bring
My Jews-Trump to thy ſet: Chore let us joyn:
Saint and Chore.
All might and power, tranſcendant Lord, is thine,
Above thy Creatures thoughts, thy glory is:
Their utmoſt ſtretch, can give to thee no bliſs,
Yet 'tis their joy, and everlaſting gain,
That they to ſing thy praiſe, their ſpirits ſtrain.
Thou canſt have but their all, their all they ſpend
Upon thy Throne, yet neither waſte or end.
O bleſt be thou, thou ſelf-ariſen Sun
Of Light and Love; from whence hath ever run
Beams both of Life and good, thickning to Globes
And Worlds: This Heaven of Saints is but the Robes
Of Rayes about thee; thou Eternal Spring
(In which th'riſing ſtreams, moſt ſweetly ſing)
Of Life and Love, and Joy, of Good and Right;
From whence we flow, and whither thou invite
Thy Channels to return; there are we well,
And not to be in thee, is loweſt Hell.
All might of love be to thy Spirit given,
Who leaſt we ſhould by Helliſh winds be driven
Into the gulf of woe, didſt with us mix,
And ran along our wavering courſe, to fix
On thee Life's Ocean. Fruits of that love
Now in our Center we do taſte and prove.
Our life is thine, O lovely God and Man,
The wonder of thy death, who of us can
Half comprehend, much leſs repay. But ſee
The goodly Off-ſpring of thy Blood, and be
Self-ſatisfi'd, while we behold thy Face
Fill'd with delight, rejoyce thou in the Grace
Thy Blood hath ſprinkled round about thy Throne,
Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Three in One.
His Character.
Moſt perfect Image of the God above,
Without was Majeſty, within was love:
One drawn with ſweetneſs by an Infants hand,
Ne'r driv'n by violence, or Baſe command:
Religion's Patron, Crown of Piety
Upon his Houſes Ancient Chevalry.
To Lawful Senates, was his Countrys choice,
The laſt diſſolv'd, above he gives his voice.
To a wiſe and beauteous Lady joyn'd,
Into a gen'rous Off-ſpring Both are twin'd.
He went not hence, till he might clearly ſee
Himſelf in's Heir, ſhould much exalted be.
His Votaries Prayer.
O let no Curſe, no Sin, no Fate, no War,
His long-lin'd houſe, e'er blot, defame, or ſcar.
But let its numerous ſeed, ſtill run along,
Till it receive Chriſt's coming, with a Song.
The Gentries Vertues, Glories let it wear;
But all its Vices, let it ſcorn to bear.
His Houſe a School of worth, let ages ſee;
And Lord, a Church of Graces, let it be.
Richard Fairclough Rector of Mells in Sommerſetſhire.
To the Memory of that Highly Noble, and Religious Knight Sir NATH. BARNARDISTON.
PArdon great Sir, though others to your Tomb,
Bring Volumes of your praiſe, and I be dumb.
A Verſe or two is all I can; not want
Of ſorrow, but the greatneſs makes me ſcant.
I cannot write, Tears make my Paper ſink;
My Pen weeps too, its proper tears of Ink.
Theſe, whil'ſt I ſtrive to Checker my white ſheet,
Correct my Error, and tell me 'tis meet
That all be black, that every part ſhould mourn,
And ſo my ſheet into a pall they turn.
How can I make a Verſe, who want my Feet?
Rooted I ſtand, amazed at the great,
And ſtrangneſs of our loſs, ſad Niobs fate
Transform'd to ſtone, is mine, incorporate
I to a quarry am; Then take from me
His Monument, his Grave-ſtone I will be;
And ſo for ever, I upon my Breſt
Shal wear this Epitaph, and weep the reſt.
Epitaph.
Here lies thoſe Sacred Aſhes, once the ſeat
Of Heav'n-born-fires, and Loves diviner heat.
No Basket-Juſtice, or Brib'd Committee,
No purged Senator, but all Purity.
In's Conſort happy, both in Off-ſpring Crown'd:
Birth made him noble, Piety renown'd.
Anagram. Nathaniell Barnardiston. Born in an All-ſainted Hart.
How well All Saints, give honor to his Urn,
Whoſe Faith was in An Hart All-ſainted Born.
The World's unworthy of him, whoſe beſt part,
Liv'd, and was Born in an All-Sainted Hart.
Nathaniell Fairclough Rector of Stalbridge in Dorcetſhire.
PARENTALE, or an ELEGIE on the Highly Honorable and Right Worſhipful Sir Nath. Barnardiſton, Kt.
BY Euphrat's Floud, when Captive Iſrael ſate,
Increaſing it; their Harps inanimate
Hung ſpeechleſs by: All ſorrows want their Tongues,
Theſe Organs ſpeak not, fill'd from ſighing Lungs.
Great anger makes a Poet; but the ſenſe
Of greateſt grief, ſtops flowing eloquence:
Who groans in tune, hath learn't the Hebrew art
To weep with th' eye; but bleed not at the heart.
My Theam's too great, that Pegaſus ſhould wear
Such ſtraitning Fetters; he can't mount the air,
Or ſoar aloft, whil'ſt pinion'd is his Wing.
England lies here; your boundleſs tears then bring,
And Mote it round; let every weeping eye
Now pay its River, till the Springs be dry;
Then offer them: Galatian tribute here
Is due, he payes an eye, that hath no tear.
The Academy, Country, Church, at once,
Have loſt their cheifeſt Patron, and thus groans.
Erſt while I ſaw a Spring ('twas Hippocrene)
Brim'd round about with Sable Jet, within
The waters ſwell'd; and paſt their common bounds:
Strait I drew near, t'obſerve, and ſearch the grounds
Of this late Floud; and ſilently I ſpy'd
The Orphan Muſes by; all ſadly cry'd:
And as they wept, the dewy tears that fell,
Slid to that watry lodge, which made it ſwell;
Their Patrons death (Apollo) caus'd this wo,
Which falling beads now tell; a wrinkled O
From every fall, their griefs in water wrote,
And ſpake the ſadneſs of their ſighing note.
The common people next, diſmaid with fears,
Dewing their Boſoms; thus fills all our ears.
Swift Time (Heavens Purſevant) ſtraitly ſummons
To th' Lords Houſe, this Member of the Commons;
Thrice choſen Senator, let Ipſwich fame
How oft her ſtreets have eccho'd with his Name;
But cruel dint of death's ſeverer Dart
Suffolks great Soul, from Suffolk now doth part.
Nor mourns the State alone; the Churches chime;
Religion ſighs; her trickling tears keeps time
Whil'ſt ſobbing thus, ſhe ſings, Here lies the Knight,
Lifeleſs, that did maintain the Goſpels Light.
Let Ketton boaſt; how from her ſacred Hill,
Her Sun with brighteſt Rayes, the World doth fill;
Here fix'd by him: O joyful, Heavenly meet
Of thouſands, Sainted by his means; that greet
His crowned head, whoſe Crown they are, then haſte
We too, to add more gems, and be ſo plac'd.
SA. FAIRECLOVGH. Fel. of Gon. and Caius Coll.