An Antidote Against Immoderate Mourning for the Dead, Epitaphs
Upon the death of that pious young Gentleman Mr. Thomas Bewlije.
Thomas Beulije. Anagram, O beati humiles.
If either Fate or Fortune had
Made ſuch a breach among us,
I ſhould have call'd them blind, or mad,
Or envious, thus to wrong us.
I ſhould have in my ſhowers of tears expreſt
A weeping eye with furious anger dreſt.
That when in all the garden did
But one choice flower appear,
It ſhould be thus nipt in the bud,
Who can with patience bear?
But moſt in that in this one flower alone,
The ſole hope of the Root is overthrown.
But ſtay! it was a better hand,
More ſacred and more wiſe,
Then Fate or Fortune can command:
[Thoſe Heathen-Deities.]
The root's not dead, the flower is but tranſplanted,
With added beauty which before it wanted.
And happy they who humbly can ſubmit
To Him whoſe Wiſdom hath tranſplanted it.
Thomas Beulye. Anagram. Thy Love-beams.
THY LOVE-BEAMS Lord, ſo ſtrongly ſhone on me,
That I impatient was of more delayes;
But needs muſt leave the Earth to go, and ſee
The ſacred Fountain of thoſe glorious rayes.
Thomas Beulie. Anagram. The Smile above.
*The poſie of the Ring given at the Funeral.Set your affections on things above,
Not things of ſence▪
It was THE SMILE ABOVE, loadſtone of love,
That drew me hence.
Ad Parentes.
Thomas Beaulie. Anagram. Leave me as I both.
LEAVE ME AS I BOTH you, 'tis for our gain;
When you know how I do, you'l not complain.
Thomas Bewlie. Anagram. I'me well as both.
I'ME WEL AS BOTH you can be; nay I am
Better, becauſe triumphing with the Lamb:
Yet I'me not gone for ever, our parting is,
Till Death unlock for you this door of bliſs.
J. C. A. M.
On the Death of that Ingenious, induſtrious, and pious young Gentleman, Mr. Thomas Bewlie Junior.
OH death! of terrors King! could nothing move
Thee to ſuſpend this ſtroak! no not the love,
Nor cries of Parents, Tutor, Friends, and all
That knew his worth, and now bemoan his fall!
Nor's age! (but eighteen years!) nor that eſtate,
To which this onelyonly Sonne was deſtinate!
Not's active ſoul! and hand! nor's nimble head!
Nor's skill in Common-Law could thee out-plead?
Nor's tongues! nor's Logick! nor's Philoſophy!
Nor's drawing! Limning! nor his Poetry!
Not diſpoſition ſweet! nor's gracious heart!
Not's love to God! nor that he did impart
To Saints! not's pity great to poor, and ſuch
As age and chance with want afflicted much!
No! Servant like, thou but to paſſe didſt bring
The Counſel wiſe, of God his Soveraign King:
Who at this time, and thus, hath cropt this Roſe,
With's hand of love; and giv'n't a ſafe repoſe,
In heaven above, where he doth clearly ſee,
What in his Mountain thoughts he ſpied to be.
Then ceaſe you Parents, Tutor, Friends, to waile,
He is with God, your grief cannot avail.
Another.
VIew underneath this ſtone, a fancy choice;
Invention good, a Sed'lous hand to poiſe
The greateſt things, a mind made wiſe by grace;
And Tongues with Arts not Scantlingly t' embrace.
His Parents joy; now grief: his kindreds loſſe.
O'th' Bewlies Phoenix here remains the droſſe.
On the Death of his dear Friend and couſen, Mr. Thomas Bewley Junior, Gent.
ARt fled, dear Soul? and is thy purer breath
Become a Victime? ah! too rich for death.
Could not the Riv'lets from thy Parents eyes
Prevail for once to drown the deſtinies?
Or's death ſo envious? that th' art onelyonly ſhown,
Cropt, like a bud, before thou wer't well blown.
Envious indeed, in that he doth deny
Us the enjoyment of thy company.
Which joyn'd with goodneſſe, and a candid mind,
Muſt few Aequators, no Aſcendent find.
But here, methinks, injuſtice taints my will,
In that while worth'leſs I would take my fill
In Traffique ſure Divine; (of which each part
Throughout thy Soul might make a ſev'ral Mart.)
I envy thee that perfect happy ſhore,
To which on earth 'twas thy deſire to ſoaere.
Injuſt (perhaps) it ſeems, yet let me ſay
That though I could have wiſh'd a longer ſtay:
So great's thy gain in thy friends greateſt loſſe,
That wee'l conjoyn the harp unto the croſſe.
To thee thy parents greateſt love did run,
A fit Meridian for affections Sun;
And nature will have vent, perhaps immerſe
Their eyes in tears attending on thy Herſe.
Yet ſhould but an Impartial Judge ſtand by,
He'd think your tears from paſsions contrary
Proceeded, that that ſeeming diſmal ſound
Did not through ſorrow, but through joy abound.
That's love indeed, if Parents don't complain
At their own loſſe, if't be their childrens gain.
'Twixt Joy and Sorrow. T. E.
End of the text · Samuel Clarke, An Antidote Against Immoderate Mourning for the Dead (1659)