AN ELEGY On the death of Mr. JAMES BRISTOW, Late Fellow of All-souls,
Immodicis brevis est aetas, & rara senectus.
Mart.
OXFORD, Printed by W. H. for Fran. Oxlad. Jun. 1667
TO THE MEMORY Of that most Ingenious Gentleman, Mr. JAMES BRISTOW, Late Fellow of All-souls; His most Deservedly Admired Friend.
OH! never tell me then again,
That Death before did ever Tyrannize,
Though Thousands lately fell her Prize;
You doe perswade in vain;
This year she greater Power Shows,
Though fewer feel, more curse her Blows:
This year fell Cowly, and this year He fell,
Who of us all that in Parnassus dwell,
Next claim'd as due Apollo's Lawrell Crown,
Alwayes on Wit Entayl'd, though not o'th Gown.
Death when it struck those two, did more
Then the Devouring Plague before.
It is the Worth, not Number of the Dead,
Which proves Fate Cruell and Unlimited.
Thus some who all their baser Captives spare,
That are not worth a Victors Care,
If by their hands the Noble Leaders dye,
Think they by this out-doe their Victory.
And thus more honour gain,
Then if the Conquer'd Army they had slain.
2.
We knew that Goodness, and we knew that Wit
Must soonest to Deaths laws submit;
But Oh! we never thought that Fate
Should prove more hard to You,
And shew a greater hate,
Then heretofore to Wit she us'd to doe.
To Cowley kinder Stars did yeild,
That he his Monument might build;
VVhich he, like some who still suspicious are
Of their Successors love and care,
For his own self, with his Immortall hand did rear.
But Thee death unawares surpriz'd,
Else she had never Excercis'd
Over thy Wit her Cruelty,
And doubly had rob'd us of Thee:
Thy Off-spring might have dar'd her Tyranny.
3.
VVhen to a Merchant, and his goods some wave,
As greedy as himselfe, affords a grave;
(His Gold as low in water being hid,
As in its Mother Earth when buried)
His friends may justly grieve thus doubly Crost;
Having both Him, and all his treasures lost.
As justly thus grieve we,
Thus double is our Misery,
Not onely that we have lost you,
But your great thoughts, that Richest Treasure too.
Ah Cruell death, that Legacie
His Friends claim'd as their due.
Had he but lest the picture of his minde,
VVe had not thought thee death unkind.
A Cunning Coward thou wert sure,
Thou cam'st not fairly on, nor warning gave,
Else he had never fear'd the grave:
He by his Pen had been secure.
Mark Antony could Tully never kill,
And Seneca lives yet, in spight of Nero's will.
4.
Tell me, ye Fatall Sisters, do you not
Lament Your selves when such must dye;
VVhen VVit and Folly must together lye,
And have one Common lot?
Methinks some Palsie Head, some Piece of Man,
Who hath outliv'd himselfe beyond his span;
One halfe of whom was buried long a goe,
Whose living Part is rotten too,
Who to some Courteous Ioyner Owes,
For Arms, and Hands, and Legs, and Toes,
Might you (dire Sisters) very well Suffice,
There you with little Pains might Kill, & Tyrannize;
But if your Envy fly at Wit,
You might your Cruelty Commit
On One who once professed it,
But did his Vein long since outlive,
To whom the Muses once a flame did give,
But now the Man the Poet doth survive?
Thus decay'd Wit might please you, & you might,
with those rich remnants, & brave Reliques glut your spight.
5.
Tell me, you Cruell Stars, why you
Did thus Consent unto his fall?
He from your Phoebus own'd his Call,
And from him he had his light too.
And how could you (bright Sun) thus Cruell be
To your own Votary?
But how alas I talk in Vain!
Oh! how do I profaine!
As if That God which once did him Inspire
With his kind heat, should kill him with his fire.
But if you did, great Phaebus, you did know
So brave, So rich a Soul
Was never sent to be on Earth confin'd,
Or to be pent up here below.
Great Souls, like the Pellaean Youth, lye here
Panting on Earth, Imprison'd, & want Air;
From which by death when freed, then first they rise
From their own graves, and then begin their Lives.
Thus have the kinder Stars him sav'd by Death,
And damn'd us here below to draw our breath.
6.
Thus now at once the Heavens we know
May Cruelty and kindness show.
We from his Joyes Our greater sorrows date,
His Death was only unto us a Fate.
But when all lose, why thus grieve I alone?
Now all Parnassus should weep Elegies.
VVith him lyes buried a Philosopher,
VVith him a Poet and an Orator;
VVe have lost Three in One.
And what in youth or Age was found,
VVas in that Narrow Compass bound.
Few years alass! (too few) he told,
And yet in all things, but years Old.
His learned Muse was soft, and smooth, and high,
Which had he publish'd (as all now adayes)
Best Poets might resign their Bayes.
But Oh! his Modesty did this deny;
And yet he was not less, because less known;
As Stars which our Horizon never light,
Their dazling beauty is to Others shown,
And shine as fair, though hid from our unhappy sight.
7.
But Since th' art gone, would I too might retire,
My selfe I strangely alter'd see;
VVhom once I did but silently admire
(For more my Envy did deny)
I now confess he will my Idol be;
O sure I'm much too vaine,
(As Heathens Once) to worship Man againe:
But yet in this I give thee more thy due,
Then when the Wit I saw, I never prais'd in you.
Oh! then, (dear Saint) I beg it at thy Shrine,
Forgive (for now thou art Divine)
Forgive, I say, that once he Envy'd Thee,
(And who would not thy Poetry?)
VVho now in Verse this pious Tribute payes,
And now at last does speak thy Praise.
But yet what do I doe?
I wrong'd Thee then, and now I wrong Thee too;
As if Poor I, thy worth could e're reherse;
A Theme for one who only writes like you,
A Theme for some Immortall Verse.
Thus some dull Lover, who long dumb hath bin,
But can not so his Mistris win,
Ventures at length to Rhyme upon her Name,
Thinking poor Fool he sings her fame;
His meaning's good, yet she more angry growes,
He his own folly thus, not her Wit showes.
8.
Then All you VVits that In Elizium dwell,
All you that Tragick Stories tell;
All you of learned Greece, and you
Of Rome as Learned too,
I Summon now to meet at this great Herse,
The Noblest Subject for your Verse.
Let Sophocles his Buskins there put on;
Let Seneca too thither Come;
There with your Moving Accents sing his fame,
And in the doleful'st Tones repeat his Name:
You need not make new Elegies; sing o're
What you of VVorthies sung before:
In no new Tune you need complain,
For they in Him do but dye o're again.
Make us too, sensible of our great losse,
VVho are distracted with so great a Crosse.
Great blowes are not soon felt, for we
As yet weigh not our Misery.
First make us understand his VVorth that's gone,
Then with your charming Rhet'rick teach us how to moan.
Unhappy Chance! I thought to say no more,
And Looks should speak, what did my Tongue before.
But Oh! me thoughts I saw him disappear:
His weeping Friends surpriz'd with griefe and fear;
Thus, the poor Persians, when their Sun's to set
In watry Tethys lap, with Eyes as VVet,
As is his bed, sadly resent his fall,
Expecting now his Funerall.
'Tis Strange! so Ʋnconcern'd he was, so glad
To part with breath, his freinds so sad
To part with him; so much they grieve,
As if They were to Dye, and He to Live;
He Checks their griefe, at once severe & kind,
For Death could not debase his Gen'rous mind.
So dyeing Cato look'd when He
In Plato found his Immortality.
Then too methoughts I heard his dyeing words,
Compos'd of all that Eloquence affords;
You would have thought (as Condemn'd Men,
VVho at their Exit begge a Plaudite)
He made them long agoe, but spoke them then,
And yet alass! for all this He must dye.
10.
Now thou, Unhappy Colledge, guard his Dust,
Happy in that thou hast that Trust.
And when you speak of Digges, remember then
In This great Soul, you have lost him again.
And here I charge you all before the Nine,
As you will answer for your Crime
Before Apollo, that if any have
His Verse, they would not too give That a grave.
For happy we shall be (great Soul) when You
Returne more known, and yet less Envi'd too.
Then let none dare to Rob the Publick so,
That he to all his Freinds doth owe.
Therefore who shall such Felony Commit,
Shall be Arraign'd for That, and False imprison'd VVit.
FINIS.