ON The Early, but happy death, of the very Hopefull young Gentleman, my once most dear, and Honoured friend, GEORGE PITT Esq: Dying of an haereditary Consumption at 17 yeares of age.
THus flitting are our best of Joyes, and this
The misery attends too early blisse;
To have a friend which I must lose! O blesse
Me (Heavens) with no such fading happinesse!
Whil'st here I breath, O let me rather be
As free from friends, as Immortality!
So shall no dying joy to me bequeath
A living sorrow by its hasty Death.
" Sorrow hath to the height its selfe improv'd,
" When we have lost what we can say we lov'd.
[Page 2] What shall I call my Passion then, who have
Bury'd more then one Heaven in his Grave?
I lov'd and lost, to tell you what, and when,
Were but to love and lose him o're again.
Great Griefs are dumb, in these sad lines I show,
What 'tis my Griefe would say were it not so.
What others might call words, here are but weak
Expressions, onely signes that I would speak.
Could I speak out, my lines should have no end,
My Griefe bee'ng more then words can comprehend.
And yet no wonder, if each sigh, each teare,
Falling upon his dust new-moulded were,
And unto us articulate now seeme,
Rebounding from so Elegant a theme.
As Memnon's statue without soul or sense,
When warm'd and mov'd by th' pow'rfull Influence
Of Heaven above, did seem in gratitude
To blesse the power whence 'twas with life indu'd:
So may his shining soul, which now is gone
Triumphant far above the Stars and Sun,
To actuate our souls, as those our clay;
And make us such in [...]eed as he should have
All speaking monuments about his grave.
Till then, like one whose losses strike him dumbe,
With this sad Paper on my brest I come,
And mourne before thy Herse, such Griefe's exprest
Best by a silent tongue, and vocall brest:
For these sad words in these white sheets, they be
The walking Ghosts of my dead Poëtry.
Which haunt thy Grave, the place which does enclose
More of my treasure then the world yet knows.
More then I have to lose again, and more
Then richest nature can againe restore.
More then my hopes can aime at here, or can
Be recompens'd in one that's meerly man.
A treasure can indeed no more be lost
Then be forgot, 'tis but secur'd at most:
Since 't lies so safe, what's left, I'll cast all in;
This Mite-devotion of my widdow'd Pen.
(Call it thy living tomb or my dead brest)
Prevaile and blow thee back againe: or teares
Shour'd on thy Corps raise a new spring of years:
Could Sobbes and dolefull groans, sent from the heart,
(The last sad Gasps wherein our hopes depart)
Or be so pow'rfull, as to mollifie
The Fates, or make thee think it sin to die.
Thy friends, whom thy far-spreading death bereft
Of Joyes, and senselesse as thy body left,
Would borrow of surviving passion,
To antedate thy resurrection.
Could whitest Innocence with sweetnesse mix'd,
Could Piety in Resolution fix'd,
Could inward Grace in outward beauty set
As true Gold in a Gilded Cabinet
Could sweetest Inclinations in a mind
Not warp'd by favour, nor through passion blind;
Could (what's a miracle) a pious youth
Ag'd in Devotion and Religion's Growth,
Upon a mortall, death might venerate,
And through religion be afraid to weare
Those sacrilegious spoils it now does here:
We had enjoy'd him longer, and in him
Those vertues which so beautifi'd the Gemme.
Wer't thou no more (sweet soul) but as of late
My dearest Freind, I durst expostulate
With death and sicknesse, and thus seem to be
In danger of a name in Poëtry.
Could threats or flatt'ries, force or wooe the Grave,
Onely to take what aged nature gave:
Could dire Anathemaes belch'd out with noise
(The loudest thunder of a Poët's voice)
Fright death, and excommunicate disease
I'm sure thou had'st not bin so soon at ease:
I know not which had giv'n more cause t' have griev'd
That now thou die'st, or then so many liv'd.
Were vertue but a name in thee, no doubt
Our words might swell so big as speak it out:
[Page 6] Or were our sorrow passion, Reason might
Enter the lists and hope to win the fight:
But 'tis above this straine we mourne, not one
Forc'd Sigh we have, strain'd tear, or modish Groane.
Such as the zealous Hypocrite puts on
When he should mourn for's lost Religion.
No mourners of the Poste, whose Grief's a trade,
Who arm'd with Iron words, so come t' invade
Death with their Execrations, murther fate
With Curses as prophane, as then too late.
Our sorrow's Christian, and our verses be
Our due Devotion, no starch'd Elegie.
True, he whose dryer soul would boast a power
Beyond what's mortall, and forbear to showr
Down pensive tears upon thy ashes, must
Crumbling to ashes too, mix with thy dust:
None can but grieve for thy Mortality
Except a soul that's much more dead then thee.
And yet he only mourns aright, that shows
A soul as innocent as vertuous:
An harmlesse Comment on thy spotlesse life.
A life so good, so chast, it seem'd to give
Us a short tast of that which Angells live:
And what's most true in all Goods here we meet,
This was its Commendation, Short and sweet.
The fairest morning of a man, the dawn
Of an aeternall day; On's clay was drawn
The lovely'st picture of a lovely'r soul,
On this the Divine Image almost whole.
Man in his stature, in's forme more then man,
In purest Innocence a Christian.
His nature soft, his body such as stole
From Heav'n a lodging for so sweet a soul.
Nature (as in the Ermine) fairly drew
His duties' Embleme in his spotlesse hue.
Who so observ'd that rarest caution which
Appear'd, when e're he was to passe the ditch
Wherein too many welter and lie drown'd,
Chusing the softest not the firmest ground.
[Page 8] Would almost say more then in Complement
Nature, not vertue made him Innocent.
To see so young a soule stand all alone
I'th' world, as vertue 'twixt two vices, one;
Assaulted now by one, then by another,
And neither leare to one, nor cringe to t'other,
Made me first see the businesse he had
For Heav'n gave him no leasure to be bad,
Whose race with so great haste to Heav'n was run
'Twas almost finish'd e're we saw't begun.
O pious soule! who know'st no paralell,
To die so young when yet thou liv'dst so well!
To see so choyce a Gemme lye all alone
Amid st a croud, and yet caught up by none
Must speake a vertue more then naturall
Which struck that secret rev'rence into all.
To see so faire a flower oft beset
With weeds and thistles, and to flourish yet
Retain it's Beauty and its sent, and be
Ev'n guarded by 't's malignant Enemie,
And more then ought but Heaven Could receive.
Those pritty tempting bates which lye and hemme
Youth in, and prey on those would feast on them,
Could in his more resolved Count'nance move
A smile at most, and of disdain, not love.
Those thundring Oaths, the highest Embloss'd Pride
Of brave discourse, which the swolne Deicide
Enam'lling all his talke with that rude grace
In a Bravado spits in Heav'ns pure face.
Spread such an horrour o're his soule, as't seem'd
The tender'st part of what was thus Blasphem'd,
So constant at's Devotion, as though
His soule did nothing but his Heaven know.
How eas'ly went that soule to God, each day
Which made it thus it's taske to learne that way!
For him to goe to Heaven, 'twas no more
But trace the foot steps he had made before:
Knowing that he must run, that wins the Goale,
It was his care thus oft to breath his soule.
[Page 10] What e're might bring to Heav'n, to him 'twas all
Becomes so perfectly habituall
It was as hard for him to do amisse
As 'twas for others to obtaine their blisse.
Where others with amazement gaze and spie
A Phancy'd lustre which puts out the eye,
He saw, and seeing loath'd, and loathing shun'd;
Did not his reason; with his sense confound.
His words were such, as onely his could be
Sweet perfumes breath'd from that rich Spicery
Which did embalme his soule whil'st here it lay
Bury'd within it's Sepulchre of clay.
He liv'd, as if his arrand hither were
To beg of each a passion, each a pray'r.
So Heav'nly were his soul's sweet motions all
To rest below had been unnaturall.
So doth that noblest element of fire
Fight with it's fuell and to heav'n aspire,
And when that's vanquish'd, and it upwards gone,
Lives the more pure though after seen by none.
[Page 11] His busnesse here below was not to wast.
A life, or stay 'till some few minutes pass'd;
All that he came to doe was this, no where
He had to leave's mortallity but here.
His blessed soul came hither but to shew
That all that goe to Heav'n must this way goe:
Had it been possible a soul should bound
So high without a fall upon the Ground,
Could man enjoy aeternall life, and not
First dye, then had he never been forgot:
Heav'n would have priz'd such jewells much more high,
Then to expose them to each vulgar eye.
But since the purest Di'mond, e're it stand
The pride and Glory of a Noble hand
Must first endure the file, and not think much
T' abide the Lapidarie's ruder touch.
Even so his richer soul now safely set
In God's more wide and Glorious Cabinet,
(Enamell rich as those bright Orbes e're wore.)
Was here plac'd to be Cut and polish'd ore.
[Page 12] Such was his entertainment here, that day
Which first gave life, first took his health away.
Born but to practice his mortallity,
Only to learn how to be sick and dye.
Nature grew jealous at his birth, she saw
A face so sweet, so brave a soul, in awe
Of her own work she stood, and lest it should
Grow more then man, and deifie her mould,
She sent him not abroad, but as we do
Our Pris [...]ners; with his churlish keeper too.
His guard's a sad disease, which does essay
To stifle's soul in his infected clay.
And when she would have walk'd abroad, to view
What Nature made of old, or Art anew,
Clapp'd bolts and shackles on each faculty,
And made her life a death, who could not die.
Till leaning too too heavy on the wall,
It had so weakn'd, caus'd at length its fall:
And now the joyfull soul escaped is
Into a fair aeternity of blisse.
For having try'd so long what tis to die,
Thou quickly did'st thy work, without all pain,
And go'st to rest aeternally again.
Whil'st others drop or stumble in, Heav'ns gave
Him leave to walke softly into this grave.
Such Flowr's are not cut down, but drawn up hence
By their bright Sire's attractive influence.
No sudden raging Fever parch'd his clay,
And in an instant scorch'd his life away:
But, as wax in the Sun-shine, when't has felt
That warmth, does rather sweetly yeeld then melt.
And seems to smile upon its kinder fates,
And to embrace the wounding raies, dilates
And kindly spreads it's selfe, and wooes it's death
Longing it's last embraces to bequeath:
So did his melting body yeelding lie
Smiling upon the Courteous Cruelty
Of such a kind disease, which in each limbe
Did seem to wast it selfe much more then him.
[Page 14] Who saw him breath his last would conclude thence,
He whisper'd Death in's eare to fetch him hence.
They seemd to strive which should yeeld first of these,
His feeble body or his weak disease,
He did espouse his sicknesse, was in love
With that which first could seat his soule above.
Angry with his Phisitians, who did try
To kill the Death brought Immortality.
His sicknesse to his body was born twin,
As every soul since Adam to it's sin.
Such entire friends that both must be or neither
Since both were borne, both live, both dye together.
But why miscall we't sicknesse or disease,
Which is his Conduct to aeternall ease?
Which Heav'n sent hither with him, lest when hurl'd
Now here, now there in a tumultuous world,
He might forget where 'twas his bus'nesse lay,
This softly pulls, and tells him that's the way.
If ere it pinch'd so hard, as fetch'd a groan,
It quickly sends a slumber to atone.
[Page 15] The breach of friendship, as an early taste
Or soft praeludium to aeternall rest.
So like the sisters were in him, his breath,
Did onely tell us which was sleep, which death,
His last successive breathings did increase
In such proportion'd measures, that to cease
Did seem Impossible, what e're may be
The adverse dictates of Philosophy.
His breathings pass'd in such proportion
As each respected that aeternall one.
When by his long disease his patient brest
Did seem to be more then was fit opprest,
And made us sometimes over apt to say
His spirit was as heavy as his clay,
We sinn'd against his piety which thus
Sequestred from's malignant dust and us
That purest soule, which up to Heav'n was gone
In holy raptures of Devotion:
When e're we judg'd him to be sad or dull
'Twas absence but no heavinesse of soul.
[Page 16] He was a study'ng whil'st he here did stay
Onely to make choice of a dying Day.
And 'twas no wonder, he dispatch'd so soon,
Who goes with th' Sun, shall come to Heav'n at noon.
'Twas not too soon to goe when God did call,
His fruit was ripe before his flow'r did fall.
Angels could not too soon their Hooks here bring,
'Tis ever Harvest, where there's such a Spring.
He saw but little, dislik'd more: the world
Unsetled, alwayes round about him hurl'd;
To fixe there, were not to stand still but reel;
Who would live to be broake on such a wheele?
Yet did he try Towne, Country, and did see
Some Reliques of an University:
But nought could force his stay: much more he might
Have seen, but strove to be at home ere night:
And now no wonder if such Flow'rs do fade
Set in so lean a soyle, so cold a shade
As is the barren world that's here below:
No such faire flow'rs on such foule dung-hils grow.
[Page 17] Just blowne he was when Heav'ns all-searching eye
In love with's beauty and his fragrancie,
Streight plucks him up, and gives him this new name,
A Saint inth' Bosome of blest Abraham.
This is his name, And now whom I before
Did love and honour, I must learne t' adore.
He now has happ'ly chang'd his mortall state,
And 'twas his aemulation, not his Fate:
That Death so early call'd a soule so chaste,
Argues his timely ripenesse, not it's haste.
It was my happinesse when I could call
Him friend, not startled at a Funerall.
But since 'tis more his blisse thus to acquaint
Himselfe with Angels, canoniz'd a Saint
By Death's owne hand, I must aesteeme it more
To be his vot'ry now, then friend before
He was not borne for us, alas we must
Not thinke such Iewels fitted for our trust
His Goodnesse was our losse, Heav'n often spares
Lesse blessings for a greater terme of yeares:
'Tis much that we can say, he once was ours:
That we once saw him is enough to boast:
And 'tis the noblest bragge to say we've lost,
And yet we have not lost our Saint, unlesse
In an aeternity of Happinesse.
We well may lose our selves in thinking how
Heav'n is so mindfull of poor things below,
As lend us so long his sweet presence, when
It selfe thus picks him out from other men.
So when the Glorious eye of Heav'n doth goe
To view the wonders which we call below
We use to say he sets and falls, when there
He's no lesse high or bright then he was here:
His course is one, and Constant, though we call
What our owne Nat'rall darknesse is, his fall
Hee's not of life, but we of him bereft,
The sorrows we have found, those he has left
Going to't all the morning, now at Even
We see him step over the Grave to Heaven.
Here weep and groan and pray to rest with thee.
Tis not thy fate that we thy friends bemoan,
Tis not thy death, not thy losse but our own.
We nee'r shall find our joies again 'till we
Can die and lose our griefs in Heav'n with thee.
But we disturb thy sacred dust, now close
Wrapt up securely in a sweet repose.
We not so prize thy soul, as hope to buy
It back by th' cheap expences of an eye.
Why should'st thou now from all thy joyes descend,
Unblesse thy selfe, so to reblesse thy friend?
When we'd enjoy thee next, 'twill be a light
Task for thy sake to bid the world Good-night,
We eas'ly shall passe through the Grave and death
To come to thee, we'll run quite out of breath.
Such pious journeys still successefull be,
He's sure to go to Heav'n that comes to thee.
‘Mors iter ad vitam.’