Suffolks Tears, Part 3 – Part 4
An Elegie upon the death of that truly noble Gentleman, famous for Piety and Religion, the right Worſhipfull Sir Nathaniel Barnardiſton, Aug. 25. 1653.
THou ſtately Top-bough of a noble Stem,
One of Gods Jewels, and thy Country's Gem,
That help'd to bleſs the Land wherein thou waſt
Lately a Saint: but now thoſe joyes are paſt;
And we in ſorrows left, with hearts moſt ſad,
To think we'ave loſt that bliſſe we lately had
In thee (Great Sir:) alas, we're now without
A thouſand comforts, that from thee dealt out
But lately were, to us, and to all men,
VVith whom thou had'ſt to do; how ſhal my Pen
Be able to ſet out to th' world that worth,
That was in thee? or who can warble forth
Thy praiſes due? or to the life, let's ſee,
What by thy death we 'ave loſt, in looſing thee?
What rareſt Oratour, or Poet can
Set forth the uſe, or loſſe of ſuch a man?
Thou bleſſed Soul; the Model of perfection,
Guileleſſe Nathaniel, winner of affection:
Belov'd of God and Man; why didſt thou dye,
And leave thy friends nought but an Elegie▪
Could'ſt thou but hear our plaints, but hear our groans,
But ſee our mournful tears, and know what moans
Are utter'd here, ſigh'd, ſhed, and made for thee,
Th' ould'ſt pity's all, if thy felicity
Could give thee leave, but in that place thou art,
Where ſorrow's ſhadow cannot reach thy heart;
VVhere thou haſt good of all ſorts, plenteous ſtore,
And joy at Gods right hand for evermore.
There reſt (bleſt Saint) thy ſoul in heavens high ſtory,
Until the duſt th'aſt left ſhal riſe to glory.
But ſhall I thus have done? how can it be?
To leave already ſuch a Saint as he;
To ſay no more of ſuch a Son of Grace
Then hath been ſaid of him, were to diſpraiſe
Him; ſo ſhal I, when I have ſpent my ſtore,
VVhat I can ſay, wil be too …at, too poore:
Could I but chant out now, ſuch notes as he
Doth in Heavens Quite, before the bleſſed three;
I'de tel his praiſes, i'de declare his fame
To after Ages, i'de make known his name;
An uncorrupted Patron that did hate
Out of the Churches means, t' augment his ſtate
He look'd upon it as abhorred thrift,
To gaine t' himſelfe a farthing by the gift
Of any Benefice, though he had thoſe,
VVhichWhich 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 himſelfe; God never mean
It ſhould be ſo, which thing this Saint knew wel,
And loath'd ſuch baſeneſs as he loathed hel.
He was a Benefactor to our Tribe,
VVe freely had his boones, he ſcorn'd our bribe.
If he were now, whence once he was ejected,
(To heare Petitions from the ill-affected,
Begging of men in power to haſte, and ply
The begg'ring of the godly Miniſtry,
By ſtripping them of means, and maintenance,
And 'th other honour due; good countenance,
That God allows them, and hath given command,
That no man openly, or under-hand
Should rob them of it, or with-hold their due)
He would have hated to have prov'd untrue
To truth, or them; loathing ill-gotten pelfe,
And would have kept them up; or faln himſelf.
And not by ſeeking theirs have ruin'd thoſe,
Gods faithful ſervants, which himſelf hath choſe,
Gifted, and ſent diſpencers of his minde
To them that ſat i'th dark with eyes-ful blind;
And God hath bleſs'd their pains; maugre her's ſpight,
And brought them out of darkneſs into light;
Yea to their calling God hath ſet his ſeal,
Their people their Epiſtle are, and weale
Of many Souls, through grace, effected by
Their faithful Labours in their Miniſtry.
I truſt our Worthies now in power wil ſtand
Strong for the Truth, and Goſpel in the Land,
Preach'd and profeſs'd, and maugre all our ſcorners,
Preſerve us, that we fly not into corners,
VVhere pining ſouls their Teachers cann… ſee,
So ſtarve and dye through Romiſh policy.
Thoſe that have gotten any Goſpel good
From Preachers lips, muſt love them; though none ſtood
For them, and their incouragement, but they
Wil chuſe to dye before they'l e're give way
To throw them down, and Heachenize the Nation,
Knowing 'twil prove Religions extirpation.
They'l lend no eare in this corrupted time,
To them wh'ould make the Word a cover-crime.
But whither runs my pen? my Muſe return,
And fall again to mourning o're the urn
Of this deſceaſed Saint, whoſe loſſe is ſuch,
Thouſands we might have loſt, yet not ſo much
As we have loſt in thee, blest ſoul, on ground
Say, where is ſuch another to be found?
Where's ſuch an Husband? Father? Friend? or Brother?
A word of comfort; ſay, where's ſuch another
Patron? a Saint ſo good? juſt? meek? ſo kinde?
So ſelf-denying? ſuch an heavenly minde?
His husbanding his time, ſo godly ſpent,
Told me h' was bound for heav'n before he went.
Since he's commenc'd above, and got his grace,
VVe cannot leave him in a better place.
Yet one word more give leave for, e're I 'ave done,
Much honour'd Lady, you his eldeſt Sonne;
Yee children all, who put to't, would much rather,
Have choſe the loſſe of all, then of your Father.
Let ſorrows ſurges ſink, let comfort come,
And joy your ſad and heavie hearts; make roome
For gladneſs, know ye 'ave mourn'd your ſhares,
Your deare is gone to glory, ſtay your tears.
Yee ſee what God hath done, and who may have
Like liberty to take, as he that gave?
Submit to God, bear Chriſtianly this Croſſe,
He can reſtore you manifold your loſſe.
Madam, take comfort, and truſt God to be
A better Husband to you farre, then He,
And to your vertuous Daughters, widows left,
Both, like your ſelfe, of Husbands late bereft;
Not only Husband, but of Father too,
To you and yours, thus doth the Promiſe go.
Worthy Sir Thomas, now, great God expects
In you ſuch graces, from you ſuch effects,
As in, and from your bleſsed Father were,
Take care, herein you truly prove his heir;
My prayers for yee all ſhal be this rather,
God make ye better, then your Gracious Father.
Loquitur poſt funera virtus.
Ro. Cooke.
An Elegie on that eminently religious Knight, Sir Nathaniel Barnardiſton.
STay (Reader) ſtay, ſtand, but a while, and ſee
The diſmal face of this ſad obſequie
Where all are Mourners, where you'd think you ſpy
A Son or Daughters tear in every eye.
Hark, Reader, haſt thou ever ſeen what Grace,
What Majeſty was ſeated in his face?
Then bow before his ſhrouded head, and know
What honour's due, where age white hairs did ſnow;
Where vertue, where a noble minde did dwel,
Which nothing can (beſide its ſelf) excel.
Democritus himſelfe, ſhould he but know
What caus'd theſe tides of tears to over…flow,
The watriſh humour in his eye (I feare)
Would melt the Chryſtaline into a tear.
Reader, firſt pay a tear, and then paſſe on,
'Tis no dry ſubject we are now upon:
But hold, God too wil have his harveſt free
From rainy ſhowres of tears, as wel as we:
This full-ear'd Wheat of his, firſt bow'd its head,
So gather'd was to's Garner with the dead.
Apoſtrophe ad defunctum:
Bleſt Shade, your pardon, that thus late my verſe,
In black and white attends your ſacred herſe;
My Muſe was fondly loath, I muſt confeſs,
To mixe with ſables in an Engliſh dreſſe;
Thought that too homely, wanton; did deſire
A perſick, Syriak, Arabick attire,
Or any more exotick; Parrots ſeek
A Caeſars favour in no leſſe then Greek:
Pardon her ſoft-pac'd meaſures, her delayes,
She in ſad broken Accents ſighing ſayes:
Should ſundry Tongues, each with a diverſe tone
Lament our loſs, all muſt conſent in one.
Write on the weeping Marble, here doth lye,
Mecaenas, and the Muſes Deity.
Sic flevit, Gulielm. Stephenſon.