P. M. S. AN ELEGY, On the much Lamented Death, of the Right Honourable Sr. Hugh Windham Kt. ONE OF His MAJESTIES Justices of the Court of Common-Pleas Westminster, who departed this Life upon his Circuit, at the Assizes in the City of Norwich. July 1684.
—Nil non Mortale Tenemus—
Pectoris Exceptis Ingeniique bonis.
THe Fatal Bell had tol'd its dismal Knell,
And Tears from every Eye in Rivers fell:
Sighs fill'd the Air, and e'ry generous Breast
By Sorrows too unwelcome Load was prest
When wondring at the Cause, the News was spread,
The Good, the Just, the Learned WINDHAM's dead,
Weep then, weep vain Mortality, said I,
Till every Tear become an Elegy;
And when your Eye-springs fail for want of Store,
Then grieve and sigh that you can weep no more.
Oh Fate, Inexorable Fate! What trust
To Titles, when they but Intitle Dust?
To say here lyes the Great, here lies the Brave,
Is all the poor distinction in the Grave;
And when thy Summons, Summons us to Death,
The Best and Wisest must resign their breath:
Else had not WINDHAM dyed, but liv'd to see
The outmost Periods of Mortality.
When Aged Time the pangs of Death shall bear,
And Natures self no humane frailties wear.
His knowledge like the rays of light had pry'd
Through e'ry Science in Arts bosom hid:
Which still, as he renewed, he still bestow'd
Not for his own, but for the general good.
So for Mans profit, the laborious Sun
Round its Eccliptick Line still trudges on
In constant pace, and never doth complain
Of his long Journey, Labour, or his Pain:
As he in Paths of Justice spent his days,
Without designs of Honour or of Praise;
And 'midst the many Hurricanes of State,
Justly preserv'd his Ancient well-fill'd Seat:
Till with the Reverend Grey his Head was crown'd,
And unsought Glories made his Name Renown'd:
When like Wise Samuell, in a good old Age,
Like Fruit full ripe, He left his earthly Stage,
By Israels Sons lamented to his Tomb,
The Glory of the past, and Ages yet to come.
Great Man farewell, thy Countries chief delight,
Great without Pride, and Wise without Conceit:
Thou happy art, ah happy, happy thou,
Who through Lives Sea has reacht thy Harbour now:
And art of thy Jerusalem possest,
Amongst th' immortal Miriads of the blest;
Whilst we, who sadly tarry yet behind,
Are made the sport of e'ry Wave and Wind.
Oh Life what art thou that we court thee so?
So loth to lose, so loth to let thee go?
Fools as we are, like Children pleas'd with Toys,
In liew of which we lose substantial Joys;
For never can we hope to rest before,
Like him, we touch the Universal Shore,
Where we shall never grieve or suffer more.
There rest with thy Contemporaries rest,
Blest Saint to reap the Triumphs of the blest;
Where in Immortal Songs great HALES and thee
May joyn in Choire, one Voice one Harmony.
LONDON: Printed for J. Walthoe, at the Black-Lyon in Chancery-Lane, against Lincolns-Inn, 1684.