CERTAIN ELEGIES Upon the Death of PETER WHALLEY Esq late Major of NORTHAMPTON.
Upon the sudden death of the much lamented Mr Peter Whalley, then Major of Northampton, 1656.
COuld not the top of Honor, nor of Wit?
Our Patriot from so sudden death acquit?
Could not his Justice, Piety, nor Power,
In Court, Town, Country, stay his soul one hour?
Could not his Office, Friends, nor his dear Wife,
Children, Prayers, Tears, prevail to save his life?
No sooner did the Bridegroom his Soul call,
But straight to follow him, he leaves us all;
Let us not mourn to see his Soul thus soar,
Who is not lost, but onely gone before.
B. I.
In obitum Dignissimi viri tam in alios morum suavitate, quam summa in Deum pietate, Petri Whalley, qui Praetor Northamptoniensis existens fatis concessit.
HOs non exornant cineres fusae arte Columna,
Verba nec ex auro, marmore sculpta nigro;
Dicere (qui fuerat) sunt haec inidonea prorsus
Ʋtraque, nec meritum justa referre suum.
Editus à Civi fuit hîc utroque parente,
Munia & hac nostrâ sustulit urbe benè.
Consulis officium longò hinc cum laude subivit,
Factus & ad duplicem Praetor in urbe vicem.
Primus hic it praesens & quinquagesimus annus,
Vita nec exactis tot (que) diebus adhuc.
Hen minus expleto naturae cederet actu,
Ceu Rosa praeproperâ verna revulsa manu.
Hinc lachrymae, hinc gemitus nostrates plura quòd aeva
Corvus agit, paucos casta Columba dies,
Exprimit infandum vicinia tota dolorem,
Rustica plebs gemitum dat replicat (que) suum.
Insequitur lachrymis lectissima funera conjux,
Defunctum deflent pignora chara patrem
Justa sequens madidis Clerus Comitatus Ocellis,
Ʋrbs sibi majorem flet (que) dolet (que) pium.
Omnia maestitiam sapiunt, Domus ipsa parentat,
Induitur Limbum parma Whalaea nigrum.
Ʋtque nihil desit nostratia fata referre,
Non cohibet lachrymas aethera pulla crebras.
Th. M.
Upon the pious Life, and sudden Death of his Dear Brother Mr Peter Whalley Major of Northampton, and late Burgess in Parliament, who died April 8. 1656. Aetatis suae, 50.
BLame not our sighs and tears, when ye
So many dead in one shall see;
A zealous active Magistrate,
To his dear Wife a loving Mate;
His Childrens Crown, the Town's delight,
He serv'd good men with all his might,
The Clergies joy, and Real Friend,
Religions Patron to his End;
Comfort to th' Poor, reliev'd the Opprest,
The Tongues and Hearts of (All) him blest,
His Countries guide, an help to (All)
Thousands lament his sudden fall:
Yet happy, He is now ascended,
His joy begun, his work is ended.
His God, his Country, and his Friend,
He lov'd, and serv'd unto his End.
W. H.
Chronogramma Enchomiasticon in immaturum obitum dignissimi viri Petri Whalley qui sexto Idus Apr. An. Dom. 1656. fato cessit.
| 831 | qVICqVID est tIbI terrenI SVCCVbVIt fato, |
| 173 | Ingent IqVe sepVLChro frVItVr. |
| 527 | ast VIrtVs tVa pietasqVe VeneranDa |
| 125 | erVnt VICtores sVbItI praeFproperIqVe fatI. |
| 1656 |
Sub hoc velo tegitur
I. H.
M. S. Upon the much lamented death of my worthy Friend, Mr Peter Whalley.
WHere are those Pyramids, whose envious height
Challeng'd the clouds and did obscure the light?
Where is the tombe of Mausolus, which gave
His noble ashes a renowned grave?
Where are the walls of Babel? Or the Shrines
Of great Lucina, Goddess of those times?
Alas! these Wonders long ago did die,
And in their ruines cry—.Mortality.
The Spade of Time rides triumph in their date,
And in their Ashes writes a humane fate.
Well: be it so; let death contrive a Tombe,
For what the brain of man, or else the Wombe
Is parent of; yet shall thy Vertue shine,
Among the Stars, and conquer death and Time.
Thy active soul, which was no child of Earth,
But is the off spring of a purer birth,
Shall laugh at fear; and fill'd with sacred fire,
Sing Hallelujahs in the Angels quire.
Thy spotless Fame shall soar with her white wings,
Above the clouds of Envy, whilst she sings
Thy Panegyrick, and in welcome layes
Re-crowns thy Herse, with her immortall Bayes.
And thus thy Soul, thy Vertue, and thy Fame,
Shall not be subject to a mortall Name.
Ita flevit,
John Howes Minister of Gods Word at Abington.
A Threne upon the much lamented Death of my worthily Honoured and Dear Friend (Of Pious and Fragrant Memory) Mr PETER WHALLEY, then Major (the second time) of Northampton, &c. Expressed under the Scheme of a Dialogue, Inter indignum quendam defuncti Amicum, & loci Genium.
Amicus. WHat means this Face of things! how is thy Brow
(Fair City) clouded, that was clear but now!
What pensiveness is this?—Whence issuing
Are all these Briny Floods?—Ah,—Where's the Spring?
What strange amusing sighs are heard! What moan
From every Brest, accented with a Groan!
Ah! What sad direful Omen boadeth this
So sudden ghastly Metamorphosis?
If in thine eyes a stranger may finde grace,
Tell me thou friendly Genius of the place.
Genius O cease enquiry; Shallow-Grief may speak:
Sure that is tongue-ty'd which the heart doth break.
But since thy Brim-full watry eyes bewray,
A Sympathy in sadness with the Day:
Come; let us mingle tears:—Its some releif,
To have Companions with us in our grief.
Our angry Fate inverts the Proverb thus:
The more, The Sadder, Therefore joyn with us.
What! the lov'd Husband new bereav'd of life
Not strike amazement in the Loyal Wife!
Shall Orphan-Children see before them lie
The Carkass of a Father,—and not cry!
Nay,—Shall the Head lye sever'd on the ground,
And the pale Trunk not die into a swound!
Such is thy Fate (sad Town)—this day in thee
Thy Husband, Father, Head, doth cease to be:
More I would say,—but sadness hath opprest
My strugling Soul;—let me groan out the rest.
Amicus. Whats this I hear! Good Genius recollect,
And do not thus my frighted sense affect.
Gen. Ah—wretched me! He's gone! (Amic.) What he is that?
Un-case thy minde: Thy tropes Enucleat.
Gen. Ah, He is gone! the Ornament, the Gem
Within this City-circling Diadem!
The Soul within this body, and the clear
Moving Intelligence of this our Sphere!
Ah! Had he liv'd (Northampton) thy blest state
Had rais'd thee emulation, but not hate.
Thy Industry had surely sprung the Mine
Within the Channel of the Silver Nine:
Whilst he by lawful Magick did contend,
That Fier out of Water might ascend.
Ah! Had he liv'd; Thy Vertue, Piety,
Thy Zeal to sound Religious Honesty,
Thy equall Justice, candid innocence,
Had still prolong'd thy Glory, thy defence.
But ah! Troy was! Thy Crown is fall'n, and now
Despair and Horrour sits upon thy brow:
Thy Scarlets turn'd to Sables, and thy Pride,
The Fasces and Securis laid aside.
Thy crabbed Lictors now can skill to weep,
And Praeficae are found in every Street.
Hark! Dost not hear the slowly swinging Bell
Ring out, with sullen-Roar, a doleful knell?
Prepare thy heart, prepare thy fluent eyes,
To celebrate his last sad Excquies.
Thy pious, prudent Praetor, Major. Head,
Consul, and Father, The lov'd Whalley's dead!
Break ope the Flood-gates, let the Sluces go,
Create, from Living Springs a Deluge so;
Then mingle Streams with Nine (subdue thy Fears)
And make it navigable with thy Tears.
That Fluid Chrystal of his Name shall be
The Monument to late Posterity.
Amic. Was this the Omen! Is it so! then Genius farewel,
I'le try what I (alone) can do, in some dark gloomy Cell.
Haec, gemitus inter & singultus anhelans, Flevit
F. A.
To the memory of his Pious and Prudent Friend Mr Peter Whalley late Major of Northampton.
HE that but little skills to make a Verse,
Is prest to pay some duty to this Herse;
Sad is the Subject, so's our Verse; but know
Losers have leave to talk, that feel the Blow;
Affection makes the Poet now, not Wit;
Light trimming mourning weeds can never fit.
Lo here the Ruines of a Casket lies,
That late contain'd a Pearl of goodly Prize;
The Pearl's dropt out indeed, but by Remove
Of Blessed Angels now 'tis fixt above,
That's safe; 'tis we the losers are alone,
In black and white, thus come to make our moan.
Here lately shone those Graces from above,
Well temper'd Zeal, with Knowledge, Faith, and Love,
With Temperance, Meekness, Patience, Moderation,
The blessed Spirit there took up his station;
His Publike cares, his Private him commend,
He was the Churches Nurse, the Good mans Friend.
P. Plain, Pious, Prudent, Peaceful was his Praise,
W. Wife, Well-bred, Willing, Watchful in his Waies.
He's now to Dust returning: Ah the day,
That turn'd this Gold into a lump of Clay,
But so the choicest Trees cull'd out we find,
When Thorny Shrubs enow are left behind:
Northampton sit 'ith Dust, cause there he lies;
And now you have lost your Head, don't spare your Eyes.
The fairest Fabricks fall to ruine must,
Whose Pillars crack, and crumble thus to dust.
Come Leveller, Death leads thy Van away,
Black Coats and Scarlet Gowns shall Homage pay
To his commanding Rod of Sequestration,
Such Men, such Christians, don't become the Nation;
What dust-heaps makes he of the choicest sort!
To kill poor Flies, and Beetles 'tis no sport;
Grim death of late does sure pursue their cries,
Who scorn dominion, kick at Dignities;
Or else with Hell combines to part the fray,
To rout the Good, that Hell may win the day;
No, no, Deaths errand is from Heaven, and we
More sober, stand amaz'd such change to see;
Sad Omen. such Eclipses boad no doubt.
When Lanthorns break to pieces, Lights go out;
Some storms will follow sure this Thunder-clap,
Judgements break in, when Moses leaves the gap:
When Guides and Shepherds in their Beds are laid,
Poor wandring Sheep of Wolves may be afraid;
Yet don't despond, though Conduits broken are,
Gods Fountain's full, these Breaches hee'l repair;
Sad Mourners, spend your tears on sin; You then
Shall blest be here, or else with him agen.
Ʋpon his sudden Departure.
O that our Fate in's losse betimes we knew,
That tri'd we might what prayers and tears could do;
This sudden blow had we but fear'd before,
We should have griev'd the less, but pray'd the more:
Heavens wise disposing hand, decreed it so,
The shortest cut to glory he should go;
Say not 'twas sudden Death, but all in hast
He took his leave, his time was over-past;
His work being done, he gently steals away,
Cull'd out, he lingers not, nor makes delay:
No Feaverish heats his fainting Limbs must burn,
And melt by drops this gold into its Urn,
No Dropsies cold, nor Agues rackt his bones,
No Atrophie drill'd out his life in groans;
He's well, a Summons comes, he turns aside,
Like Moses meek, onely went up and di'd.
Romes Imperator often wish'd to be
Posted away by such Euthanasie,
And yet his Pilgrim soul could little know,
Whither when outed hence, it then should go;
Much better He, that heaven hath sure in's Eye,
May wish, not fear at least, thus quick to die;
Dejected seldome he, who daily dies:
Death laid in ambush cannot him surprize.
'Tis not a body craz'd, but soul that's sound,
That for departure hence stands ready bound;
Consumptive pains not alwaies wast the sin;
A Life well led, Death only welcomes in.
Peace then in this, no more lament at all;
Who waits his change as he, can never fall.
Upon his Interring in the Church of All-Saints in Northampton.
BUt say where shall this sacred dust
Lie till the raising of the Just?
This close lodg'd Guest, where shall he be
Hid for this Worlds eternity?
What structure's this? to whom related?
Fame tels to Saints 'twas dedicated;
If All Saints here a part should have,
Saint Peter then may claim a Grave;
'Tis not that Apostolike he
Lies here, yet Peter 'tis you see,
And Saint he was sincerely true,
Saint Peter then may be his due;
What ere he was, one part you see
Here wrapt up in Mortality,
His better part to God is gone,
His Warfare's finisht, work is done.
Blest soul adieu, our loss's thy gain,
Thy pleasure's full, while we in pain.
Impartial Fame shall dresse thy story,
Thy Name lives here, thy soul in glory.
PETER WHALLEY Anagram They Reap Well.
THey Reap well
That Heaven obtain;
Who sow like thee,
Ne'r sow in vain.
On the Life, and sudden Death of my Dear Brother, Mr Peter Whalley.
REader, Vouchsafe to know before thou passe,
Whom th'Church, the Town, and County lost: He was
A Magistrate fill'd with a publike minde,
To all's private relations dear and kinde.
Helpful to th' poor, to Friends he faithful prov'd,
Honest to all, of honest men belov'd;
Fixt in OLD Truths, when Times for NEW Truths were;
He made both Church and Ministry his care.
He serv'd his God, though's busines did abound,
When his Lord call'd, he was SO DOING found.
On his sudden Death.
Although the sacred Preacher cannot lye,
Yet this Good Man searce found
Eccles. 3.2.
a Time to die.Was his departure strange, not being sick?
God made it easie, as Death made it quick.
His death was such that 't may almost be said,
As Paul of some, he's rather chang'd then dead.
He dy'd like Moses, with this difference still,
Moses went up, and he went
He died in an house standing at the bottom of an high hill, which hill he walked down a little before his death.
down the hill.Though when death came, he was i'th bottom found,
His active soul, soon got the higher ground.
Whilst others fet a compasse, here is one,
That unto heaven the next way is gone,
Though in this race, others with him begun,
Yet all quite out of distance hath he run.
Like Snails we duller mortals do but creep,
But he he hath done it with a running leap.
Death stole behind, as if it self him fear'd,
Knowing he was before-hand well prepar'd.
His being slipt so soon out of this life,
Twix: Saints and Angels did prevent a strife;
They would have held him here to help them still,
These would remove him hence their quire to fill;
Should all wear blacks that have a cause to mourn,
The Sun it self must into darkness turn,
And the black night a blacker garment have,
So all this World be but as Whalleys grave;
Should all due tears be shed from clouds and men,
A second Flood would drown the World agen.
I. H.
An Elegie on the sudden and much to be lamented death of Peter Whalley Esq twice Major of Northampton, and lately Burgess for the Corporation, who to the publique grief departed this life, April 8. 1656.
IF Love or Honour could exempt from death,
Then hadst thou still enjoy'd thy vital breath.
If Friends or prayers could subdue the grave,
Then thou on earth another life should'st have.
But since no love, nor honour, friends or prayers
Can life restore; let us in floods of tears,
Lament our loss, and with affection mourn,
Because the Head is from our Body torn.
A good man's gone, like Enoch in great haste;
Oh cruel death forbear, make not such waste.
He was a godly man of unstain'd life,
A friend to peace, an enemy to strife;
A publique-spirited man, made up of Love,
Wisdome and meekness, graces from above.
He was a Pillar, yea a corner stone,
A Major, a Burgess, fit for Northampton.
An active-spirited man in Church and state,
Prized by godly men at a high rate.
A tender-hearted man unto the poor,
And open-handed to them at his door.
A Phinehas for his zeal, like Moses right,
He led the people, till called out of sight;
Like David, faithful to his friend, like Paul
Discharged a good Conscience unto all.
He living walkt with God, and now he's dead,
The grave is to his body like a bed,
Whilst his refined soul mounts to the skie,
Clothed with glory, and eternity.
Samuel Cibs.
In Obitum Charissimi Patris mei, Petri Whallaei Armigeri, Qui hujus vitae limina disseruit, Sexto Iduum Aprilis, An. Dom. 1656.
EN! Petra, percutitur, Lachrymarum hinc effluit amnis,
Ex oculis Guttae fluminis instar eunt.
Ecce! Genas fletu conjux tua chara rigavit:
En hic! En illic! Quae (que) latebra dolet;
Eruptis Lachrymis diffundit turba sepulchrum,
Acriter exululans, hîc jacet Ʋrbis Honos.
Nos tam foelices, donec te fata vocabant!
Jam (que) jacent tumulo gaudia nostra tuo.
Quis fueris constat; lachrymis agnosceris illis,
Non tibi chara magis conjuge vita fuit.
Singulus Sobolis Patrem testantur amantem,
Dum deflent populi te quasi Semideum.
Praesidium miseris, Patriae Tutela fuisti:
Quis scit an & manes hic quoque tangat honos!
Ibat ad occasum sic Lux clarissima Gentis,
Et sanctum Tumuli condidit umbra caput;
Si tamen illius meritis Par vita daretur,
Non nisi cum mundo debuit ille mori.
In Eundem.
Vita fuit Christi, tua gloria; Mors, tibi lucrum:
Fit tua vita, Dei gloria, Mors (que) tui:
Audax ante diem sic Mors tua lumina clausit,
At sibi Mors nunquam plus licuisse putet.
Nunc habitas cives inter stellantis Olympi,
Vitae (que) aeternae Gloria Christus erit.
Thy Saviours Life, thy Glory was,
His shameful Death thy gains;
Thy life (blest Saint) Christs glory was,
By Death thy life remains.
Why cruel death before due time,
Didst close his glorious eyes?
O think not to repeat thy crime,
Gods Saints must shortly rise.
His Blessed Soul's in Heaven above,
'Mongst the Celestial Train,
Where Christ imparts out of his Love
Glory to him again.
N. Whalley.
An Elogie upon the Death of his Dear and ever Honoured Father Mr PETER WHALLEY.
TWill not excuse to say I have no vain
Of Poetry; who is there can refrain,
When such friends fall, and death ambitious how
To raise his Triumph, makes such Worthies bow?
Who would not try to sigh and sob a Verse,
When 'tis t' attend, and wait upon this Herse?
When Death arrests (I see) and calls away,
Goodness can't bail, nor vertue cause delay;
Death was too quick for us, not him; but stay,
He did not kill, but stole this prize away:
Death knew he was prepar'd, and therefore sent
No Gout to tell him that he must repent;
A tedious sickness had his friends more griev'd,
He then had longer di'd, not longer liv'd.
There's none will blame a wind, 'cause it doth send
Their Ship too soon unto their journies end;
He now a journey took, who oft did go
To Englands City, now goes to Heavens too.
Best things not always last the longest, so
Silks will out sooner wear then wool or toe.
Nay it had injur'd his high soul to wear
His body till his flesh had look'd thredbare.
Since he must go, with us no longer stay,
Death was his friend to guide the neerest way.
He only slept in haste, as if to die
Had no departure been but extasie;
The key of Mercy gently did unlock
The door 'twixt heaven and it when life did knock;
We weep not therefore for his losse, but ours
Which is so great; drops will not serve but showers.
Our father's dead! ours is the grief, and then
How vast it is, that neither tongue nor pen,
Is able to express, alas, and I
Can onely shadow forth our misery!
Ah! who can grieve with us poor souls, whose grief
Admits no equall, but transcends belief.
Our dearest Father, in whose breast did lie
Our life, is fled into Eternity.
The Child, the Widow, weep with equall strife,
Who should weep most, his children or his wife.
Come weep with us, who ever reads or hears,
And know his loss deserves his Countries tears.
The Church hath lost a Patron, by his Fate,
A Friend his Countrey, and a prop the State:
Who would not therefore now, if Vertues friend,
Bewail his sudden unexpected end?
Who has such hard, such unrelenting eyes
As would not weep, when so much vertue dyes?
But he is gone; our task's to imitate
What he was doing till he was stopt by fate.
Our future vertuous deeds are Legacies,
Which from the gift of his example rise.
God grant that I whom Nature made his Son
May be (like him) until my race be run;
So faithful to my God, Church, Countrey, Friend,
And all concern'd Relations to
The End.
P. W. Peter Whalley, Anagram A Whyte Perle.