AN ELEGY, In Memory of that Famous, Learned, Reverend and Religious Doctor OLDSWORTH, late Chaplain to the ever living Majesty of CHARLES the MARTYR, and sometime Vice-Chancellour to the now dying University of Cambridge, a principall sufferer in Stormy-beaten Sion, but a stout maintainer of the purity of the PROTESTANT PROFESSION.
AMongst th' traine of Friends (good Sir) I bring
Religious Anthems, but want breath to sing.
Infuse my Muse with some religious fire
Of Thine, that I may blaze, and then expire.
But rather doth it seem to blaze in wet,
Then with an ardent heat, for Oldsworth's set.
Then who can hope to build for him a shrine,
Or speak him dead in Verse? but in the Cristalline
Of every eye he is intomb'd, each teare
Like staved torches wait upon his bier.
Then, what need I attend thy Reverend hearse
With Elegies, when eyes drop balme and verse?
But least the heat of griefe be drown'd in wet,
Here's my Sun dyall (though the Sun be set).
Then busie grief, let's passe upon Parole
To Register his worth in verse; Controle
No more my senses: under the notion,
His worth is best known in corruption.
What though his worth hath built his worth a Shrine?
His worthinesse may be interr'd in mine.
Who knows not? but day nights a tapers light,
And the Meridian justles night from sight.
Th' enameld floor in which the gold doth lye,
Is rather waste, then grace to it's purity.
What need a Diamond lustre have a foil?
Or Oldsworth lines, to shew he was divine,
Let a skill'd Lapidary ope the tombe
Of a rich Diamond, and a wombe
Of rare production summons every sense
To aid its lustre in a rich defence.
Then grac'd, not wast, when divers stones are plac'd
In golden quarryes, as if from thence rac'd.
How can the world truly pen thee divine,
When thy bright beames to us through crannies shine,
As if thy graces could comprised bee,
In such a roome, where thou art layd to be?
I love the Limner which can draw the man,
With each proportion, in a ten-inch span:
But I dislike the lyar, when his talk
Unshapes the shape by saying it can walk.
Some of thy worth, sweet Soul, let me impart,
For soul dumb sense, to shew more what thou art.
Selected Gemms all thy set graces were,
Of grace and goodnesse. O forbear, forbear.
To promulgate! impiety 'twould be:
That thou shouldst dye, and none ask what was he?
What tongue can answer give for such a losse?
But words would lose themselves in their own choyce.
Wert thou a man morally good, or so,
No other Elegy, but thy dust should show:
But every soul that knew thy gifts can tell,
Channells must change, and the vast center reele
Of every soul, where can they fixed be,
Since doctrine and the Doctour both agree
(I fear) to leave us. Oh may you here be found
In every pulpit! though y'are under ground.
And there my Fancy spies him, while I see
Him drawn an Angel to Eternitie.
How grave? How sweet? How Rose-like was each look
Of his? as if his Saviour in his book
H'ad met with face to face, and not by faith,
The promise promis'd glorified he hath.
Still more reviving life sprang in each cheeke,
Whilst nearer to his text through's prayer he would breake,
And when concluded his, he would rejoyce,
And sound his makers praise with cheerfull voice
In Christs own prayer: that done, he would begin
Again to chime his lips, not heard but seene,
Then taking up his bible by the strings,
Hee'd turne the leaves as if hee'd spread Christs wings:
Under which he, and those that did beleive,
The comforts there contained might receive
A Paul, A Moses, and Elias, three,
Zealously one, and so divine was hee.
Emphatically would be presse a point,
As if his senses mov'd were out of joynt,
Which in his hearers such impresse did take,
As if all senses did their place forsake,
And center in the eye. There every eare
Was turn'd into the sight, whilst looks did heare.
His lips had kiss'd the God of Love, for jarres
Were sweetly reconcil'd, though with his tears.
Oh pious soule! melodious are those pleasures,
Which are constrain'd with unconstrained measures.
His birth took part with wit, each age grac'd hee,
As if his cradle had been his library.
The Church (when present hee) lackt not a head,
The State confest that he in Court was bred.
A Pastor, Citizen, dwelt amongst many,
Yet of their factions favour'd he not any.
Free in discourse, morall, as well divine:
Who knew thy worth? must know all worth was thine.
Not like sun-dyalls, when the Sun is gone,
Can show no more of day, 's if day were done:
But like the Diall of the day, the Sun
That posts through this, or that Meridian.
Each Climate to his Genius was as fit,
As if he had the universall wit;
That call'd him to the Court, where every one,
Like a Court-diall cast reflection,
So usefull in the fortunes of each Peer
Were shadows cast, hee'd shape a substance clear.
In all the solitudes of the deceased King,
No going to Chappel, but when he rung in.
Oldsworth the man, Oldsworth the mouth from whence,
He drew the comfort of soul-influence,
Oh glorious Star! that shin'd in Charles his Court,
By which the wisest Charles had beames of comfort,
Though dipt in deepest depths of wo, yet shind
His teares for pitty, when his tongue declind.
But dimm'd in shining! Left this earthly state.
Whither? to attend the Martyr to inaugurate.
That's done already, no sooner born again,
But of four Kingdoms was he crown'd a King.
A lane, yee holy Guard! since he is gone,
To attend heavens Court, glad not with such connexion;
Since thou art gone, who moans not this his fate?
For Doctors, Dunces; so unfortunate
Each University! they suffer, by
Passion each member, Church by sympathy.
Blest is that man, who when he liv'd, was lov'd,
And mist with sighs, when from earths center mov'd.
Why moves this Bell? what means this dolesome knell?
Tolling out tones, as if it bad farewell
To some one parting hence? why rings it out?
Oldsworth is dead, then faces turn about.
Who could be confident of this? but goes,
Whil'st on the way, the pavement fresh he strows
With pearly showers of tears, and being come,
The Bel's the man, whilst that the man's struck dumb.
In louder stroaks it tels the world the News
Whom tis heaven gaines, and whom the earth doth lose.
Departing hence, each party rings a knell,
In the domestick Steeples where they dwell;
The difference none, their metals melt away
Like mine; and I contemplate what they say.
Since thou art dead (oh reveverend Ghost) I bring
A Pillow stuft with down of Angels wing
To rest thy sleepie head on; for its fit,
Rest should it now, which could not rest for wit,
Then in the Mansion of thy dust Ile now
Here take my leave (Sir): But Heaven allow
My hearts expansion to contemplate, what
Thou art, I am satisfied in knowing not:
Or what 'tis where thou art. I know not what
I know in knowing not, Thy place is that.
W. F.
FINIS.