AN ELEGY ON THE Most Reverend Father in God, HIS GRACE, JOHN, LATE Lord Archbishop of CANTERBURY.
By N. TATE, Servant to His Majesty.
LONDON: Printed for B. Aylmer, at the Three Pigeons against the RoyalExchange in Cornhill; and W. Rogers at the Sun against St. Dunstan's Church in Fleet-street. MDCXCV.
TO THE READER.
TWAS Reverence for so Extraordinary a Subject, not Want of Inclination, that so long withheld me from making This Attempt: And I could willingly have supprest it, in the Consternation that has since befall'n us. But 'tis now Publish'd in Submission to some Persons, whose Respect for the Great Deceas'd, inclin'd them to think too favourably of the Performance. However, if the Picture I have drawn of so great a Man be dislik'd, it may oblige some more Skilful Hand to do Right to His Memory, for whose Character the World has so just a Veneration.
N. T.
Licensed, JANUARY 1. 1694/5.
AN ELEGY On His GRACE JOHN, Late Lord Archbishop of CANTERBURY.
COmplaints, like Ours, in Ramah's Vale were heard,
When Samuel's Awful Reliques were interr'd.
Like Him, by Heav'n approv'd, and Earth admir'd,
Our Age's greatest Prophet is Expir'd!
Just Honours to his Sepulchre we'll pay,
But some kind Seraph must instruct the way.
A Garland for his Marble we'll compose
Of Syrian Lillies, and the Sharon Rose:
Arabia's Spice in one rich Pile should flame,
And Gilead's Balm, less precious than his Name.
But when the Treasures of the East are spent
In pious Off'rings at his Monument,
All Rites perform'd that to his Urn belong,
To whom shall Fame entrust the Fun'ral Song?
The Graces Speechless to his Shrine repair,
Ev'n Art and Wit stand silent Mourners There;
Yet bolder Zeal will Bands of Duty break,
And Gratitude be priviledg'd to speak.
True Passion too can Inspiration bring,
'Twas Grief first taught the Nightingal to sing
From His, as from Elijah's powerful Tomb,
Ev'n my dead Muse shall vital Warmth resume.
Heark! from on high I hear a Seraph say,
Hence ye unhallow'd, for my Charge make way:
The Crowd retire — a Matron streight appears,
Stars on her Head, her Face bedew'd with Tears,
How charming are her Looks —
Tho doubly now opprest with Grief and Years!
Divine
The Church of England.
Eusebia, tho in Sables drest,Is still by her Angelick Mien confest.
Charm'd with her Voice the listning Winds repair,
While Thus her balmy Sighs perfume the Air.
Pity me, Heaven, for your All-searching Eye
Can only to my Grief's deep Centre pry.
Behold me, once of Mothers the most blest,
Of Mourning Mothers now the most distrest!
Compell'd my Temple's Glory to resign,
My SUN extinguish'd, who with Rays divine
Blaz'd out, and taught my Younger Stars to Shine.
My Pow'rful Pan, my Ruling Pastor's dead,
Whose Pious Care my Flocks and Shepherds fed.
When mighty Realms enslav'd to Error lay,
And Empires stoop'd to Mystick Babel's sway,
Then could I boast, such was my Patriarch's Care,
To shew th' Apostate World an Apostolick Chair.
To Envy I appeal (for we may trust
Envy her self with such Religious Dust),
If ever Guide with more Reluctance took,
Or menag'd with such Skill my Ruling Crook.
A Crook, that once committed to His Hand,
Wrought Miracles, and bloom'd like Aaron's Wand.
Endu'd with Power to work my Flocks Increase,
And charm Contending Shepherds into Peace:
Not wily Jacob's Mystick Arts of old,
Prevail'd with such Success on Laban's Fold,
As his unblemish'd open Life, to gain
The Separating Straglers of the Plain.
Matrons Abroad, for Reformation fam'd,
From Superstitious Vanities reclaim'd,
[Page 4] My Temple's Ancient Honour saw Renew'd,
And bless'd my Stars, and for my Friendship su'd.
On Me these Blessings my kind Saint conferr'd;
Transporting Blessings! — but with him interr'd.
With faint Delight shall I my Vintage press,
Listless the Harvest of his Toils possess,
Bereav'd of Him who did my Comforts bless.
As Israel's Guide from Pisgah's Mount withdrew,
The Desart pass'd, and promis'd Land in view;
To such rebated Joys my Tribes are led,
Canaan in Prospect, but their Leader dead!
How short-liv'd was the Transport I possest,
For which with Tears I had so oft addrest!
For This did Saints and Angels long intreat,
And Caesar court him to my Past'ral Seat?
Approach my Sons, with Me approach his Shrine;
In One Condoling Dirge your Voices join;
Your Albion-Rocks with these sad Accents rend,
We have a Father Lost, Mankind a Friend.
Thus mourn'd the Matron, and with Sighs opprest,
His Sacred Urn embracing, Wept the Rest.
With no less Passion Britain's State Complain'd;
No less the Loss that Britain's State sustain'd.
When threatning Danger did the Realm surprize,
Not Homer's Nestor could, like Him, Advise.
[Page 5] His Words, as if Inspir'd, Impression made,
Ulysse's Skill, without his Craft, display'd:
His Counsels ne'er were varnish'd o'er with Art:
With Policy He still did Truth impart;
Spoke Oracles, — but always spoke his Heart.
No passive Gorgon did his Reason charm,
To hang dead Weights on our Restorer's Arm:
His Measures He from sacred Sanctions drew,
To Heav'n and to his Countries Int'rest, true.
Hence, by respect to Him, her Friends were known;
And she discover'd in His Foes her own.
When first in Learning's Orb His Lustre blaz'd,
The World look'd up, transported and amaz'd;
Nor less surpriz'd, bewail his Beams withdrawn,
Pensive and hopeless of another Dawn.
So, pleas'd and wondring, our great Parent view'd
The first day's Sun, and with charm'd Eyes pursu'd;
And when from Sight the setting Lamp withdrew,
So He out-wept the Night's distilling Dew;
In sable Shades, Grief's Vigil kept untir'd,
With Looks still Westward fix'd, where Day expir'd.
The Labyrinths of knowledge He descry'd,
With REASON like a Sibyl for his Guide,
And with Her Oracles divinely blest,
As happily her Dictates he exprest.
His pow'rfull Style an artfull Nature grac't;
Expressive words and all with Judgment plac't;
Hence they, like chosen well-rank'd Troops prevail'd,
And through the Hearer's Ear his Soul assail'd.
His Eloquence was neither course nor vain,
From Arrogance and Stiffness did refrain,
Courtly Familiar, and Majestick Plain.
Extensive Sense He into compass drew,
Said what was Just, and always something New;
That did surprizingly our Souls delight,
As sov'raign Beauty conquers at first Sight.
He, thus compleatly Arm'd for Truth's Defence,
His pious Warfare early did commence.
Gigantick Atheism first His Vigour try'd,
A daring Foe that Heaven it self defy'd:
Ev'n Hell at first this Monster's Brood disclaim'd,
Nor one fall'n Angel knew for Atheism damn'd,
But Earth, more impious than the Realms of Night,
Sent Hell a Race of Fiends that did her Furies fright.
Ah stupid Crew! who Reason wou'd employ
Eternal Reason's Essence to destroy!
The Fable's now to impious practice grown,
These Sons of Earth wou'd Heav'ns true Jove dethrone.
Rome's Dragon next our Champion did engage,
The same that dar'd of old th' Arch-Angel's Rage,
[Page 7] And flush'd once more with Arbitrary Pow'r,
Waited Eusebia's Off-spring to devour:
But, when his Torrent-Pride did highest swell,
Confronted by this second Michael, fell.
And when at last he saw (as 'twas but just,
The Champion with his rescu'd Charge to Trust)
Eusebia's Altars made His Guardian-care,
With Jaws expanded, through the blasted Air,
Belch'd Curses, the last Refuge of Despair.
These Monsters quell'd, no Sphinx or Hydra rose,
But whom He did with like Success oppose.
Then, as first Heroes doubly gain Applause,
By Conquests, and prescribing righteous Laws;
Thus did our Pious Guide just Precepts give,
Both how to Think aright, and how to Live.
The Cheats of Syren Vice expos'd to view,
And Vertue in her native Beauty drew:
Of her bright Paths a Prospect did display,
Where smiling Peace and harmless Pleasures lay;
Did straying Souls to her Enclosure bring,
With charming Accents, such as Halcyons sing,
Or Evening Zephyrs when they woo the Spring.
Heav'n He describ'd as 'twere His native Home,
And He an Envoy from those Regions come.
Divinely Humble in Preferment's Height;
Nor then disdain'd on needy Worth to wait:
High Station only did his Beams extend,
But none in his Advancement lost a Friend.
By Judgment's Compass ev'ry Course he Steer'd,
And watch'd the Signals e'er the Storm appear'd:
His Prudence o'er the Syrges did prevail,
With Ballast still proportion'd to his Sail.
Precipitately ne'er assum'd a Trust,
To Promise Slow, but in Performance, Just.
Of Temper calm, and Sanatively cool,
As Jordan's Current, or Bethesda's Pool:
By Grace Instructed, and by Nature mild,
Nor relisht Life but when he Reconcil'd:
His Carriage, Words and Works, breath'd Gospel All;
His very Look was Evangelicall.
His Life and Aspect did just Patterns give
What Figures Angels make, and how they Live.
Th' Appearance of his Person brought a Charm
That cou'd at Sight contentious Rage disarm.
So Boistrous Winds that furiously contend,
And Sea and Air in wild Disorder blend,
[Page 9] At Neptune's Presence, o'er the Waves Display'd,
Sculk to their Caverns, and the Storm is Layd.
To Souls opprest with Sickness or with Grief,
His Visits, like an Angels, brought Relief:
When wrong'd, repeated Pardons did extend;
To Suffer Resolute, tim'rous to Offend.
His wond'rous Charity no Limits knew,
But, like Heav'ns Manna, in the gathering, Grew.
His Bounty ne'er by Limbeck-drops distill'd,
But in large Show'rs the thirsty Valleys fill'd.
In Giving, some express such grutching Grief,
That Want it self repines at the Relief;
But he so Cheerfully did still impart,
That with his Alms he seem'd to give his Heart.
But Day, my Muse, will from our Sphere retreat,
E'er we his Vertues Garland can compleat;
Nor all thy fairer Sisters that frequent
Pirene's Banks, on that one Labour bent,
Tho' Fancy's Treasure shou'd be drein'd, can raise
The full proportion'd Tribute of his Praise.
Sons of Mortality, Learn'd, Pious, Wise;
Who boast no less than Kindred with the Skies;
See where Entomb'd your great Example lies!
Well! since his Spirit its native Skies regains,
We'll celebrate at least its dear Remains;
From Fate it self we'll force the sad Relief,
The mournfull Comfort to indulge our Grief.
Permit ye Stars, who now his Presence boast,
Earth's wretched Sons, to tell what they have lost!
But he who justly will perform this Part,
Must Truth consult, no study'd Rules of Art;
Invoke no Helicon but Jordan's Spring,
And for his Epicede an Anthem bring.
Much less can our unconsecrated Verse,
His deathless Apotheosis rehearse.
'Tis in a Sublunary Muse's Pow'r,
To furnish Trophies for a Conquerour;
Home to his Palace from the vanquish'd Plain,
Expanded Fancy may the Pomp maintain;
But oh! when Vertue's Triumph we would paint,
The Progress sing of some departing Saint,
When some Elijah must to Heav'n be caught,
From Heav'n the flaming Chariot must be brought:
In such a Flight our Pegasus will Fire,
To mount that Wain aloft there must conspire
The Whirl-Winds rapid Wings, and Steeds of Fire.
The Tishbite's fiercer Spirit, when ravisht hence,
(Whose Ministery in Terrors did commence)
With such tempestuous Rapture might dispence;
But Transport, like our Prophet's Soul, Serene,
Grac'd his pacifick Life's concluding Scene;
From Earth translated, gently, to the Skies,
As Angels that on Flames of Incense rise.
From high, where gratefull Throngs about him press
Of Souls by him directed up to Bliss;
His Spir't looks down, and sees the Past'ral Chair
Supply'd, and made his mild Successor's Care:
(For Heav'n their Minds Resemblance form'd Compleat,
Like the Twin-Cherubs of the Mercy-Seat.)
Our Altars made so kind a Guardian's Charge,
Does, ev'n in Paradise, his Joys enlarge;
Pleas'd that Eusebia does once more rejoyce,
Once more applaud her pious Monarch's Choice.
FINIS.