Suffolks Tears, Part 8 – Part 14
An Elegie on that ever honoured Knight, Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston.
NOt for to ſcrape acquaintance with the great,
Much leſſe, like ſome, to get a good meals meat;
Not that my stranger Muſe ſtrives to be known,
As if ſhe thought ſh' were elſe as good be none:
A mourning Ribband, or a parie of Gloves,
Can nothing tempt her from that reſt ſhe loves?
My Muſe is no ſuch hackney, none of theſe
Can draw her from her now accuſtom'd eaſe;
Nor doth ſhe now (as earſt) catch after wit,
And hap'ly ſometimes had the praiſe of it.
In part, She mindes her ſelfe, now cal'd away,
From lighter ſtudies, to a graver way;
In part, ſhe thinks 'mongſt Country Clowns to riſe
In ſtraines of wit, were but to ſolaeciſe.
Partly her wil's in fault, and may be too,
Though ſhe were ne're ſo willing, 'twould not doe.
Chiefly, my Muſe puts on ſo grave a dreſſe,
Becauſe th' occaſion cals for ſeriouſneſſe.
And now ſhe ſpeaks, ſhe doth not meane to raiſe
A Trophie to his name from's father's praiſe:
Though here (if Anceſtry muſt have a place)
She knows no ancienter, no nobler race.
Thoſe who have nought to brag of, but the glory
Of their fore-fathers, blot their fathers ſtory.
I'de put the Ape, and ſuch men both together,
That could be proud of borrow'd Peacocks feather.
But here no ſluggiſhneſſe did make a ſeat
Of Grandſires glory, there to ſit compleat;
But he made what he found left by his Sire
But as his foot-ſtool, that ſhould raiſe him higher.
And as the circled glaſſe contracts the flames,
That noon-tide Sun did ſcatter with his beams,
And makes them like meridian lines, at laſt
To meet in one point, as from one they paſt:
So here thoſe nobler flames that were compreſt,
Some here in one, ſome in anothers breſt,
Of all thoſe famous Barm'ſtons, once alive
Met here, in this conjunction cop' lative.
So that to raiſe a Trophie to his fame,
From thoſe ſame vertues that have run ith' name,
And hence to fetch one ſtone, and thence another,
To catch at this in that man, that in t'other;
This were to goe about, as he ſhould ſtray
From hence to London, ſhould take York in's way.
VVe'l make a ſhorter cut of it by farre,
VVhile he alone both compaſſe is, and ſtar;
And though our Logick-mongers teach for truth,
That accidents muſt never dare (forſooth)
To change their ſoyl (but like ſome fetter'd Aſſe,
Inclos'd in wals, muſt alwayes feed on graſſe;
Or as we read it was with Shimei)
But ſtir from ſubjects once, they needs muſt dye.
Yet here we finde thoſe vertues all doe dwel,
In which each Sire of his did moſt excel;
And having leſt their former ſoyl, yet more
Did thrive in him, then e're they did before.
So wel, (though Logick ſcoffe) without correction,
Divinity maintaines her reſurrection,
In ſhort, his Father gave him life and breath,
But he (O Miracle) even after Death.
Revives his Fathers Fathers, makes them be
(Being long ſince dead) freſh in our memory.
Yea, he ſurvives himſelf, and cannot die,
Until the ending of eternity.
But minde thy ſelf, my Muſe, remember how
Thy calling makes all other things to bow
To one, (Religion) leave all other then,
And make this one, the ſubject of thy Pen.
Nor need'ſt thou here put on Creative power,
As Poets ſometimes do; who in one hour
Create him Saint, being dead, who all men know
A walking devil was, when here below:
None need to ſtretch his conſcience, here to tell
Officious lies for one, that burns in hell;
To draw belief to't, by his forged ſtory,
That, that damn'd caitiff, is a Saint in glory;
And thereby make even Boyes and Girls to point,
And ſay, The Preachers conſcience's out of joynt.
No, ſpeak he moſt▪ then can; there is no fear▪
It ſhould offend the tend'redſt conſcienc'd ear.
No new truths can be preach'd, but what are known,
No better by the Preacher, then the Town.
All men that knew him, by his life might know,
He was not onelyonly great, but godly too:
Nor was his ſaintſhip of that new Edition,
Which Sequeſtrations make, or a Commiſsion:
Gain brought him not to Piety. To riſe
From ſin to grace, he ne'er learn'd by th' Exciſe.
Nor did he (Proteus like) to all mens view,
Change his religions face, ſtill for a new,
As th' old grew out of credit; he ne'er made▪
Religions change to be his gainful trade.
'Twas Conſcience made him Pious, no deſign
To rob thee (gaſping Church) of what was thine.
He deem'd that which the new Saints of our Age,
Count a main peece of Piety, Sacriledge.
But peace my Muſe; thou'dſt fame to th'later times,
And cloath this Heroes actions in thy rhimes;
Thou long'ſt to bring partic'lars on the ſtage,
And would'ſt; but that the growing Peers o'th' age
Being ſet o'th' counter part, would ſurely raiſe
Thine Elegiake ſtrains, to Satyr layes,
And make them ſpeak ſo loud, that without doubt,
They'd doom thee to't, to have thy tongue cut out.
I think it therefore, far the ſafer way,
Thou prate no more, but that thou rather pray,
Many ſuch Barnardiſtons God would ſend,
Th'unhappineſs of Church and State to 'mend.
Samuel Reyner, Thirloe Mag.
An Elegy at the Funeral of that truly Honorrable, and moſt Religious Knight, the Right Worſhipful Sir NATH. BARNARDISTON.
WHat Marble now is dry? then ſhall not we
Our tears pour forth, at this ſolemnity?
In ancient time the men of Carthage Town,
Upon Maſiſtius death, their Towers brake down;
Their Walls they hung with blacks, and Towers torn,
That ſo not onelyonly men, but ſtones might mourn.
The Rock it ſelf, when Moſes ſmote did ſpring;
Streams Cryſtalline the fiery Flint did bring.
Much more ſhould we, now God himſelf doth ſmite,
Send forth our ſtreaming tears; for theſe of right
Are due; if we deny this tribute, then
The ſtones that now ſhed tears, will ſhame us men.
When Pompey by Septimius was ſlain,
The valiant Julius Caeſar did diſdain
To view his head; when to him it was ſent,
His Kingly heart, with pity did relent;
His Cheeks bedew'd with tears, his clemency
Did manifeſt ev'n to his enemy.
If Julius Caeſar wept thus for a fo,
Then for a friend, much more ſhould we do ſo.
For ſuch a friend, whom all men may of right,
Moſt truly term, The High Gods favorite.
His deareſt darling, and all mens delight.
Who whil'ſt he liv'd with us, out-ſhin'd in grace
The reſt of men, now ſees God face to face:
When that the Emp'ror Titus did depart:
What cloudy looks, moyſt cheeks, and heavy heart,
Might be beheld all o'r the Roman State,
Each ſingle man bemoaning his ſad fate:
And thus concerning him, they did complain,
Titus is gone, t'our loſs, though to his gain.
The ſame may we take up; Gods darling's gone.
'Tis for his good, though our affliction.
Well mourn we may, as in ſome ſilent grove,
Whil'ſt he in heavenly joyes, triumphs above.
Nathaniel he was, Gods gift to us;
A Gem, a precious Pearl eſteem'd, and thus
The greater was our joy; but now deceas'd,
The more our grief, and ſorrows are increas'd.
It ſeems God gives and takes, who can gainſay?
God ſaith, Give me my gem, who ſhall ſay nay?
Who ſhall reſiſt his will? Lord take thine own,
But give us leave, our loſs for to bemoan.
A cuſtom 'twas of old, that men renown'd,
Not onelyonly living, but when dead, were crown'd.
Marcellus once this honor did receive,
The ſame the Emperor Auguſtus gave
To Alexander's Tomb: Demetrius
His Urn (when he was dead) was crowned thus.
Not any man more worthy of this Bay,
Then he for whom we celebrate this day.
A King he liv'd, moſt worthy to be crown'd,
In whom ſo many graces did abound.
A King he di'd, Deaths Victor now ſits down
In Heaven reſplendent, with a glorious crown,
When Death uncas'd his Soul, it to Heaven tended,
And by his declination he aſcended.
How now grim Death, whence cometh thus thy rage?
What, could'ſt finde none but th'Phoenix of our age,
To exerciſe thy cruelty upon?
No twinkling Star, none ſerve thee but the Sun,
Thus to eclipſe? How do'ſt thou think ſhall we
Deport our ſelves, when we no Sun can ſee?
Whence this thy hate to break our Rule and Line,
To take our Pattern from's that was Divine?
Hadſt thou no white, but innocencies heart,
Whereat to level this thy forked dart?
O 'tis not he, but we that feel the ſmart.
Lo here a Spectacle we ſee,
To teach us all, what we muſt be.
Wouldſt know thy mettal? then look on
The Mould and Earth, thou tread'ſt upon.
Look here proud man, behold thy Mother,
For at the firſt, thou hadſt no other:
She brought thee forth, thou art her ſon,
Fleſh of her fleſh, bone of her bone.
Thou muſt repay again, what ſhe hath lent thee,
Thy fleſh thy bone, and what e'r elſe ſhe ſent thee.
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 rapt beyond themſelves they run,
And for their guide, among the nine they chuſe,
A fullen, melancholly, penſive Muſe,
To ſhew that bitter ſtream of Pegaſus,
That prompted Naſo with De Triſtibus:
Of this they largely drinking to their fill,
Did into farre more bitter tears diſtill,
Sounding aloud, in hideous lamentation,
As when Plague, Sword, and Famine fright a Nation.
I wondring, curiouſly the cauſe deſir'd,
VVhichWhich ſo much wit, and ſo much grief requir'd;
'Twas anſwer'd in a ſad, and doleful voyce,
By one whoſe ſorrows did ſurmount his noyſe.
Alas! of all good men (of ſuch though bleſt,
The Catalogue's but ſhort) we' ave loſt the beſt;
Prince in his Tribe, his Countries Patriot,
By election made, not undiſcerning Lot;
A juſt, wiſe, honeſt, noble Senator,
Lover of Peace, contentions Arbiter,
Patron of Learning, Poverties releife,
The Angels joy, and eaſe unto friends grief.
Farewell, brave Soul, whom now the Saints do greet,
In all things high, but in thine own conceit.
Theſe great Elog'ums did me little move,
(A ſtranger to his perſon, and his love:)
Beſide, I knew that Poets, ſome for gaine,
Many for feare, and more for hunger, ſtraine
The muſick of their pliant, giddy paſſion,
To any humour of Mecaenas faſhion;
Yet ſome impreſſion I muſt needs admit,
Seeing whole Families, and Hamblets ſit
Like Iſrael by Euphrate diſcontent,
As if his abſence were their baniſhment.
I therefore did unto the Funerall ſhow,
If not a Party, yet Spectator goe;
There was the much lamented herſe let down,
In hope of reſurrection to a crown;
In ſilent vault confin'd with worms, and duſt,
Where marble muſt conſume, and iron rust;
Whence we expect a glorious releaſe,
For th' ſeeds corruption tendeth to increaſe.
But when I ſaw the mournful Dowager,
Like Mary Magdalen by th' Sepulcher,
Fixing her eyes upon the greedy grave,
Which humane fleſh unſatisfi'd doth crave;
As if in that cold bed ſhe'd rather lye,
Then part with her old loving company.
When Children, Nephews, Kinſmen there ſtood dumb,
Like Images, to deck the dead Knights Tomb;
I could not then refraine, but theſe tears lent,
As drops to th' Sea, their ſorrow to augment.
Sure he was very good, who when life fayl'd,
Left ſo much wealth behind, and's yet bewayl'd;
Whoſe heir can ſlightly look upon his gold,
And wiſh't ith' live Teſtators hand untold?
But grieve not Sirs, nor envie him, his mind,
He's far above what he hath left behind;
Nathaniel is not dead, but was entic'd,
To leave his Fig-tree, for to follow Chriſt.
Edmund Vnderwood.
A Funerall Elegie on the Right Worſhipfull Sir Nathaniel Barnardiſton.
WHen Abner dy'd, King David then could ſay,
A great man fell in Iſrael that day.
But how may we lament, to ſee Gods hand,
Thus ſnatch this great and good man from our Land?
This our right Worthy, Sir Nathaniel▪
Who did not ſuffer guile in him to dwel;
But when our giddy-headed Nation run
After ſtrange Meteors, he moſt like the Sun,
Kept on his courſe in Juſtice, Truth, and Right,
And ſhin'd more clearly in this ſable night.
Rend now your hearts, and be confounded all,
That love the truth, at Barnardiſtons fall;
When ſuch ſtrong pillars from the Church are ta'ne
VVhat can we judge in reaſon to remaine,
But deſolation? yet great Jove can ſtill
Extract much good from greateſt ſence of ill.
Near forty years hath he moſt glorious been,
In ſtrengthning vertue, and ſuppreſsing ſin;
Of all that knew him was he moſt renown'd;
And now by God that made him is he crown'd,
And in immortal glory ſhall remaine,
Until that day that all ſhal riſe againe:
And then with Chriſt his Saviour ſhal appear,
To judge all thoſe that were Apoſtates here.
John Soame, Gent.
An Elegie on the much lamented death of Sir Nathaniel Barnardiſton.
VVEre I indued with that learned skil,
To mourn thy doleful death, with ſuch a quil
As might it grave in lines, as faire, as thoſe
Thou wrot'ſt thy noble life in; and compoſe
Each ſillable by ſo exact a ſquare,
As that whereby thy actions formed were;
Then might I ſuch an Elegie invent,
As ſhould thy death unto the life lament;
Then ſuch ſad accents, ſuch a doleful verſe
I might breath forth, as might become the herſe
Of a Nathaniel, and might fully tell,
How ſad's the death of one that liv'd ſo well:
How as th' Inamorato of Sol's ray,
The Heliotrope, which in the lightſome day
Diſplayes its wideſt beauty to his light,
Doth cloſed mourn his abſence in the night:
So doth the Country, which with great deſire
VVont to receive th' influence of that fire
Of prudent Piety, which from thy breſt
Sent forth moſt glittering rayes, but now (th' art bleſt
Elſe-where with light more glorious, and dear)
Lament thy ſetting in our Haemiſphear.
But 'tis an Art my ruder Pen can't reach,
To mourn thee as becomes; and ſo to teach
Strangers to know thy pious worth, and ſee
How great a joy all good men loſt in thee.
Beſides, to ſpeake ſo highly in thy praiſe,
As thy true worth requires, may chance to raiſe▪
In ſome mens mindes miſtruſt of flattery,
And thy due praiſe be thought Hyperboly.
But ſince perhaps: it might be thought a crime,
Now to be wholly dumb, at ſuch a time,
When ſo renown'd a Heroe cals to ſpeake;
Somewhat i'le ſay, though but in accents weak,
And yet but little wil I ſpeake, and that
Not in thy praiſe; (Reader, do'ſt ſtart hereat?)
The reaſon's this; Not that I envie thee,
That, which is known of all, thy due to be;
But that thy worth far doth my Pen tranſcend.
And he that poorly praiſe doth diſcommend.
Not to diſparage then thy worth in Layes,
Too meane by far for thy deſerved praiſe:
All that ile ſay is only this, to tell,
Thy worth needs not my praiſe, 'tis known ſo well.
Ralph Garnons. M. A.
On the Right Worſhipful and ever honoured Knight, Sir Nathaniel Barnardiſton.
A Grave! a Funeral! my Muſe, no toyes
Become this Scene, no fancies like decoyes,
To tangle Readers in a pleaſing maze
Of lofty words, wrapt in Luxuriant phraſe:
Theſe are not ſeaſonable, now our verſe
Can nought elſe ſpeake, or think of, but a herſe.
That Macedonian Trumpet, that did bring
Memento mori to a mighty King,
Inſtead of Ave Phillip, late hath brought
VsUs doleful newes, a ſad diſaſtrous thought.
Stand off, come not too near, give aire, give breath,
I faint to ſpeake of late unweildy death,
Snatcht not a Philip, but Nathaniel hence,
An Iſraelite, that of no guile had ſence,
One whoſe rare piety that's much admir'd,
Speake him an earthly Angel, though attir'd
In Robes of Fleſh; one of a higher mind,
Then could to lower regions be confin'd,
Whoſe heaven-born ſoul did ſtill in contemplation,
Paſſe o're thoſe heavenly joyes, whoſe adumbration
He fully now enjoyes; thoſe pleaſing ſhades,
In ſweet Elyſi'um, where joy never fades:
Thoſe Hills of Solyma, where pureſt ſtreams
Make glad the region of that Sun, whoſe beams
Thoſe healing wings, continually refreſh
The Sacred Pilgrim, when diſ-rob'd of fleſh:
There reſts this holy Saint; what heretofore
He could but ſee in part, and wiſh for more;
H'ath now attain'd: O rare ſtate of perfection,
The end of hope, joyes center, Saints election.
Nor did his ſtrict religion onelyonly ſpeak
His Peerleſs worth, which we (alas) poor, weak,
And crazy mortals, knew not how to prize:
But he had gifts more obvious to our eyes,
Love to his Country, whoſe affairs he minded
With ſo great care, that none but envy-blinded
Can ceaſe condoling him, whoſe name who hears
In future times ſhall ſteep himſelf in tears:
And like ſad Niob', ſtanding o'er his Tomb,
Shall kiſs the Earth, in whoſe moſt happy Womb
He lies inclos'd; and to his ſacred Urn,
As to a Delphick Oracle ſhall turn.
But ſtop my Muſe, his V…rtues ſo tranſcend
Thy weak expreſſion, that perhaps i'th' end
Thy minde may be miſ-deem'd, and ſome may raiſe
An argument againſt thee from thy praiſe:
Better forbear to ſpeak, then ſpeaking wrong
The harmleſs dead, to whom all praiſe belong:
Condole we then his loſs, his Vertues paſs,
Prais'd by themſelves, engrav'd in firmeſt Braſs,
Which time ſhall ne'er wear out, nor malice blot,
But Fame ſhall render blameleſs without ſpot.
Yet this admit, the more his Vertues ſhone,
Our loſs the greater, and the more our moan.
O for a Mount of Tears to ſleep upon,
Acis or Biblis, for a Helicon:
But wiſhes boot not, clear we then our eyes,
He's ſinging now triumphant Elegies.
Whil'ſt we poor mortals groveling here below,
Fall ſhort of that his praiſe, we fain would ſhow.
This onelyonly 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 rhetorick, and a Childe though weak,
Knows how to weep, before it learns to ſpeak.
I have my end, although my ſtile be rude;
Who do not ſtudy wit, but gratitude.
This Noble Gentleman, when firſt I came
Into the world, beſtow'd on me my Name.
Now he hath lately left the world, ſhall I
Fooliſhly modeſt, ſuffer his to die?
What though far abler Pens applaud him, yet
They meant to pay their own, and not my debt.
His prayers for, and favors to me ſhown,
No other Muſe proclaims beſides my own,
Which though a new-Born ſpark, yet ſuch a Name,
May quickly mount it up into a flame:
A Name wherein you nothing mean, can ſpy
His Birth, Place, Perſon, Graces; all were high
Whileſt here: But now he in thoſe heights doth dwell,
That nothing, but an Angels tongue can tell.
My Infant-Muſe oppreſt with ſuch bright glory,
Leaves flaming Seraphims to write his ſtory.
Nath. Owen. Anno Aetat. 12o.