The Upright Man and His Happy End, Poem 4 – Poem 12
In obitum Nobilissimiac verè cordati viri Francisci Pierepout Armigeri, &c.
PLurima jam strages agrum consecerat whem,
Nunc & edax multo fimere pinguis humus,
Exemplo quatiente animos; cùm nuncia fati
Tristis, ad exitium tota parata, fores
Pulsaret faciles non immortalis Amici,
Supremum Domino claudere jussa diem.
Prodit huic Genius, volucris custodia vitae,
Ac cupit intrantis sistere posse gradum.
Non patet haec (inquit) sceleratae janua turbae:
Improbus haud nostras a…s… adine domos.
Non hìc contemni se laesa potentia caeli
Questa est in dignis exagitata modis.
Hîc malè confictum nec Religion is amorem
Impietas prae se ferre superba solet.
Hîc nemo socium vix cautum, pessimus arte,
Prodidit, intactam dissimuland… fudem.
Pauper is oppressi non hinc penetralia clamor
Vindic is assuevit sollicitare Dei.
Nullius hîc famam mendaci lividus ore
Polluit indoctus censor honesta loqui.
Nulla caperatam faedat nubecula frontem,
Si for…è alloquiis auris amica vacat.
Non musis invisa domus, non grata socordi:
Compositos juvenes non tulit iste loc us:
Nec Junt haec Domini crudelis inhospita tecta,
Prompta sed officio gratia fratris adest.
Ergo alio concede, tuis nunc parce sagittis,
Laethalis senibus findat arundo latus,
Aut quibus indignas animas sua corpora gestant;
Hîc virtus, Pietas, nobilisatis honos.
Hunc vivum poscit proles, hunc uxor, amici;
Hunc cives, dives, pauper ubique jacens.
Quàm voluit Christi nova nupta puerpera membrum,
Laetetur secum quodque simul doleat;
Vota nihil prosunt; lachryma nihil; impigra telum
Mors jacit, & medium guttur utrinque ferit.
Per jugulos humor funesto spargitur astu
Noxius, allisi pectoris ima gravans:
Donec pars melior, sedes pertaesa priores,
Ac gaudens caelo liberiore frui;
Dum nequit ulteriùs molem sufferre caedentem,
Quae, malè conceptis ignibus usta, tumet;
Incola carceribus displosi corporis ardens
Emicat, angelicis associanda choris.
Jam fatis defuncte, Deo qui charus, ab alto
Subjectam faelix despice victor humum;
Ac tutos sponsi thalamos ingresse beati
Convivae niveâ cingito veste latus.
Caelicolumque pie primâ te classe repone
Dum subit infernas impia turba domos,
The same in English.
GReat was the havock death had made
Whil'st every where men dread a shade:
The famisht ground was then full fed
With a rich feast of bodies dead;
What time that breathless Post of fate
Knocks at our friends attentive gate,
With hastie summons to invite
The man to bid the World goodnight.
The watch, that had the guard that day,
Prevents his speed, and bids him stay;
Then holding parly, know (said he)
From lewd companions we are free.
No horrid crimes this house doth hide;
Nor is that Heaven-assaulting Pride,
Which vainly scorns the powers above,
Charg'd here; nor the dissembled love
Of pure Religion made a paint
To wash and falsifie a Saint.
Nor may a Judas here commend,
Kisse and betray his fearless Friend.
The oppressed Poor's vindictivecries
Do not from hence to heaven arise.
Detracting envy here must raise
No damps to poyson others praise.
No sullen cloud cast o're the face
Obscures the entertainers grace.
Which did the Muses so far take,
As made the frequent visits make;
And bless the place from drowsie Fools,
That fill the seats in Bacchus Schools:
Yet hospitable kindness feasts
The civil ever-welcome guests.
Then pass us by, and aim thy darts
At witherd and out-dated hearts:
Or let thine arrowes finde out those
Whose brutish corps like Souls inclose!
Must Virtue, Grace, and noble Birth,
Descend into seplchral earth?
And the dear consort of his life
Be now a Widdow, not a Wife?
And must that stock be now cut down,
Whose branches are so fairly grown?
Let theirs, let Friends, and Neighbors tears
Both rich and poor prolong his yeers!
How fain would Christs black comely Bride
This flow'r might still uncropt abide;
That they might smile and droop together,
Or in Serene or Cloudy weather!
Tears have no force, nor wishes po
To intercept the fatal hour.
Death deaf to all, soon strikes a note
That sounds harsh from his wounded throat.
Now the fell humor doth infest
The tronbled region of his brest,
So long, till the diviner Form
Not able to ride out the storm,
Fain in safe harbour would retire,
And quit the Bark, which all on fire
Is soon blown up and forc't to Land
Her Pilot on the Ethereal strand.
Unbody'd Saint now safely rest
From the foul worlds black Tempests blest:
And in the Bridegrooms closet dress
Thy self with robes, that may confess
A richer glorie and more white
Than his that doth eclips the night!
With crowned Elders then repose
Thy pious self; while graceless foes
Sail down the Stream, the Port forsake
And perish in th' infernal Lake.
S. Brunsil.
On the much lamented Death, &c.
MY Coal black muse presents, gives fire
Just in my bosome, sounds retire
To levity. More zealous thence
With sense of loss and loss of sense
Proceeds to tell how that of late
(Such was her passion) Church and State
Had lost a light. So she refuses
To be profane amongst the Muses.
Such influences subjects grave
Upon a Poets vein may have,
Especially when they are Noble dust,
Religious, Charitable, Just,
Learned and politick, such compositions
Without, tautologies and repetitions
Can nere be press'd; the book of life
Is able to decide the strife.
O horrid graves yee can retain
But what's your own, no Pierreponts brain.
I summon every heart and hand
Within the bounds of holy land
T'unite their forces, let them know
They've lost a leader, and that now
The Church since she is grown more old
Must learn to go without a hold.
Upon the Death of the Honourable FRANCIS PIEREPONT, third Son of the late Earl of KINGSTON.
KIng of Terrors be not cruel,
Man is nature's choycest Jewell.
Nay, here's one in whose rare frame
Nature laboured for a name,
And meant to leave his perfect feature
The patern of an happy Creature.
A stem of Honour; Fortune's gaze:
Mirror of kindness; vertue's praise,
Goodness of nature, Love of Arts
And Wisdom, mixt with height of parts.
Now shall we think to n'other end
Gracious Heavens do use to lend
Dame Earth her best perfection,
But thus to vanish and be gone?
Therefore only given to day,
To morrow to be snatch'd away?
I've seen indeed the hopeful Bud
Of a beautiful Rose that stood
Ev'n blushing to behold the ray
Of the newly welcomed day:
But when this flower richly had
Himself with swelling glories clad,
Fierce Boreas did with one rude blast
All this flourishing beauty waste;
And laid down trembling at his feet
Those ruddy leaves, so fresh, so sweet
I've seen the morning's lovely ray
Hover over the new-born day
With rosy wings, so richly bright,
As if she scorn'd to think of night,
When yet a rugged storm (whose scoul
Made Heavens radiant face look foul,)
Blustered in untimely night,
To blot the newly blossom'd light.
But were the Roses blush so rare,
Or were the Mornings smile so fair,
As is Grace, neither cloud, nor wind,
But would be courteous, would be kind;
For what's more like the Deity,
Than blessed hoary Piety?
Well, He to whom our sorrow brings,
The purest streams of all her springs,
He whose precious memory
Bathes now in tears of every eye,
Was rich in grace, as well as nature,
Had those best gifts that bless a Creature.
In him goodness joyed to see
Proud Honour learn Humility.
Oh! in the Center of his Brest
(Ev'n sweet, as is the Phoenix nest)
Was Love, and Pitty: Bounty, Fear,
Meekness, Justice, and Knowledge Clear,
Yea ev'ry reconciled grace
Had there their general meeting place.
Religion wore him next her heart,
When other shrunk, he would not start.
The Ripe endowments of his mind,
Had left his years so much behind,
That numb'ring of his vertues praise,
Death lost the reck'ning of his dayes,
And so believing what they told,
Immagin'd him exceeding old.
Sure had the Tyrant learnt to bear
The softest tincture of a Tear,
Tears would now have flowed so fast,
As to have stopp'd his rashest haste:
And sickness sure would glad have been
Sick her self, to have saved him.
Grim destruction here amaz'd
In stead of striking, would have gaz'd;
And his Feavor wish'd to prove
Burning only in his love.
But he is dead. Alas! we see
Man at his Best is Vanitie.
Upon his Tomb pitty may spend
The warmest Tears that grief can lend,
And sad mortality may hide
Under his ashes all her pride,
With this inscription o're his head,
All hope of long life here, is dead.
Franciscus Piereponte
Anagr.—Pacifer, sic in rure potens.
Pacifer hic in Rure potens, Dux, Arbiter, Heros:
Caelesti Divûm numero jam pace triumphat.
Ita flevit—Sa. Cotes Bridgfordiensis.
On the Death of the Honourable Francis Pierepont Esquire, third Son of the Right Honourable Robert Earl of Kingston.
BUt is he dead? Can I believe
That he should dy, and we should live?
Me thinks we may the knot untie,
Better to live, fitter to dy.
(Death I see) doth wisely chuse
The Gold, but doth the Dross refuse.
If each place had had its right,
Thou long since hadst bid us good night:
But, now th' art gone, in doubt are we
Whether to joy or grieve for thee.
Our loss is great, greater thy gain,
Our comfort doth exceed our pain:
He that writes thy sad Eligie
Shewes more love to himself, than thee.
Blest Soul! I can no more relate
Thy life past than thy present state:
My pen can only blot the story
Of thy Life, and of thy Glory.
Our all's unwelcom courtesy,
At best, but well meant Injury.
Long may thine live; and forward grow
In Grace, and goodness, for to shew
The world, that as they bear thy name,
They are heirs also of thy fame.
Sam. Pickering.
On the much-lamented death of the Honourable Francis Pierrepont Esquire.
WHen Sun is set the Stars by their faint light
Serve only for to shew us that tis night;
Change but the scene, tis we; who now attend
The dolefull funerals of this noble Friend:
Whose presence made it day with us, we knew
No night till he bid us and th' World adieu.
Surviving friends cannot (though joynd) repair
Our loss, only tell us how poor we are:
Strangers that live at distance can no more
Conceive of it, than we our selves before
It did befall us, still so senceless does
Enjoyment make us of what's precious.
But now quick sighted sorrow hast's t' envite
His Epitaph, and dictate thus to write.
Here lies the glory of his kinde,
The sweet composure of whose minde
Won all that knew him, such it was,
So mil'd, in it as in a glass
Others who would behold might see
Not what they are, but ought to be.
Whom learning had its patron (sad,
That we can only say it had.)
In whom impartial Justice knew
To distribute to each its due.
In others weal or woe his heart
Would sympathize, and take its part.
Happy in reconciling those
Whome pride and passion had made foes.
A constant hearer of the word;
Though great, hee own'd a higher Lord:
Whose zeal, and prudence one might see
In his well-govern'd family.
Stay Reader, all's not here exprest;
But silent grief sighs out the rest.
R. Grant.
Uppon the proemature and much lamented death of the honorable Francis Pierrepont Esquire deceased.
AH! why so fast, great Sir? the Soul that was but sent
A while agoe, so soon to quit its tenement,
And leav's, is sad and strange to us; such sudden flight
Doth cloud our day and turn it to a darksome night;
And thus it needs must do, for though some Stars appear,
Yet when the sun is set, It's night i'th' haemisphere;
And so it is with us, for since our sad deprival
Of thy self, where is thy compeer or thy Rival?
If to thy birth we cast our eye, thou wast of them
Whom well we may call surcles shot from noble stem,
In glistering beams of honour, thou didst brightly shine,
And virtues pearly chain, to deck thee, it was thine.
With all the gifts and richest ornaments of nature
Thou wast stor'd, which might adorn and bless a creature
The sev'ral parts of happiness which scattered be
In others, all concentred were, and met in thee.
Then why so fast away, since to make up thy bliss
All thinge did thus concur? oh sure the cause was this,
The little common-wealth of man like greater States
Hath some certain periods set, and hidden Fates.
Heavens Statute-Law stands unreverst, that all must die,
But how, or where, or when, we have no certaintie.
S. C.
On the Death of that Honourable and worthy Patriot, Francis Pierepont, Esq;
Sic Flevit Z. C.
IF to be deeply wise and honest too;
If to know well to speak and well to do;
If to be learned, and the learneds friend;
If much in Alms, nothing in pride to spend;
If to grow rich on his own Patrimony,
Without the loss, or grief, or curse of any;
If to profess Religion, and withall
Not to be dangerous, or schismatical;
If to be noble at the old Herald's rate,
And humbler far than those o'th'mushrooms date;
If to be both in love and blood most near
To the great Aesculapius, Dorchester;
If to be Parent, Master, Husband, all,
As each relations rule doth strictly call;
If to attain that heavenly art, to end
And umpire strifes, and yet lose neither friend;
If these may be esteem'd a good mans glory,
They were constellated in Piereponts story:
And if these lost at once, can make the world
Wisely consider her last sand is running;
(Cause such a prop and Pillar down is hurld)
We need no Sedgwick t'tell us [doomesday's coming.]
On the much lamented Death of the truly Honorable Francis Pierepont Esquire.
IS Mourning grown a fashion? and a Hearse
Become the common subject of a verse?
Are th' muses all close mourners? and are tears
The only Pearls which they of late do wear,
And drop for beads over their graves to whom
In Pilgrimage Poetick feet do come?
No wonder then, great Sir, if at your shrine
The Muses should turn Vot'ryes, and combine
There to lament the loss which they sustain
By your sad death; whose sacred Vrn contains
Those precious reliques which may justly call
For their attendance at your Funeral.
Mahomets Tomb may unfrequented lye
Whilst yours is visited by passers By;
O're which to drop our Tears in verse will be
Devotion now instead of Poetry.
Doth virtue now prove fatal? is't a signe
A Starr is falling when it doth out-shine
I'ts bright colleagues? doth a more glorious light
Only portend a sad approaching night?
Do Pearls dissolve the soonest? and they dy
Fastest, who best deserve to multiply
Their dayes among us? do the highest spheares
Finish their course in the least term of yeers?
Or have the greatest orbs as well's the least
The Earth their Center and the place of rest?
Did these things seem so strange to us that you
Great Sir, are fain to dy to prove them true?
But if our knowledge at no meaner rate
Can purchas'd be out of the hands of fate
Than by your loss; wee'd rather much remain
Ignorant still, than at such cost obtain
A Demonstration. Could none else be
To us a pattern of mortality?
But he whose life was so much priz'd by those
Who value men by real worth not shewes;
And can distinguish by converse with one
Right watred Diamonds from a Bristol stone.
Such those knew you to be who knew you best,
Whose worth was greater than the vulgar Test
Could reach to comprehend: they only knew
So much as to admire; twas not one view
Or two or more made by a vulgar eye,
Would serve to take your Elevation by.
You lov'd not to expose your self too much
To common view; that you reserv'd for such
As could discern where the distinction lyes
Between Pretences and true Piety.
You scorn'd to prostitute Religion to
The Lusts of men, as now too many do,
Whose consciences are weather-wise, and goe
Round with the quarter where the wind doth blow.
Your blood receiv'd a nobler tincture from
Your great endowments, than by what did come
Down from your Auncestors; whose vertues too
Had the same Chanel with their blood to you.
Next to your noble Brother, whose great worth
Have set a Copy to be transcrib'd forth
By all great Persons; They may learn by you
How to be Noble, Wise, and Learned too.
Edward Stilingfleet fellow of Saint Johns Coll. Cambr.
On the Memory of the Honourable Francis PIEREPONT, Esquire, (third Son to the Right Honourable ROBERT, late Earl of Kingston) who exchanged this Life for Immortality, January 30th. 1657.
IF any ask the reason, why so late
My Muse a mournful Song doth meditate,
I'le answer, that at first she was struck dumb
With petrifying stupor: Let her come
To recollect her self, Her sighs and tears
Will amply shew the high respect she bears
To inshrin'd Virtue, and Nobility
Derived higher than Natures pedigree.
Hence is't that brokenly she versifies:
(Words in deep sorrow cann't be heard for cries.)
Copartnership alleviates sufferings;
From Sympathy a much less trouble springs:
But here such losers are both Church & state,
They scarce suffice each to lament her fate,
When such as Thou Great Soul, are snatch't away,
And so both robb'd on the same dismal day.
So that if we lament a Senatour
Most sage and faithful, or a Warriour
Steel'd with true Valour: Justice, Temperance,
All virtues in their Heroick advance
Depressed unto dust: While we condole
The maim'd Republick, the Church (as if our Soul
Were too much seak't in Politicks) cries out
Alas! How is it that you look about
With careless minds? Is't nothing that I want,
When such a Pillar's shrunk? Who was not scant
In any point whereby to introduce
Religion's power into his Housholds use.
Nor only acting in a narrow sphere
Comes forth in publick fitter to act there.
Doctrine (me thinks) and Discipline contend
Which have in Pierepont lost the greater Friend.
Ʋncertain, which most, Truth's Complexion
Or Order's Symmetry took his affection.
Which truly noble Candour we in vain
May look and wish for, not call back again;
Nay rarely find in any mortal brest;
Hence 't comes to pass our Friend is gone to rest.
An Ostracism ejects him out o' th' world,
Which can no longer bear Virtue install'd
In State Majestick; but soon tenders up
To Heaven the overflowing of its Cup. —
I. T. C. C. I.
FINIS.
End of the text · John Whitlock, The Upright Man and His Happy End (1658)