PIETAS IN PATREM, OR A FEW TEARS UPON THE LAMENTED DEATH OF HIS MOST DEAR, AND LOVING Father RICHARD BARLOW, late of Langill in Westmooreland, who died December 29. Ann. 1636. By THOMAS BARLOW Master of Arts, Fellow of Queens Coll. in OXON▪ and eldest son of his deceased father. — Sed & lachrymae pondera vocis habent. OXFORD, Printed by William Turner. Ann. Dom. 1637. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. Upon the lamented death of his most dear, and loving father Richard Barlow, late of Langill in Westmooreland. MY Father dead? stay, stay report, and tell This heavy news by parcels; say the bell Toules for my dearest father, say that he Is very sick, yet his recovery Is not impossible: pause here, until We have digested this; for so it will Make way for more: and if it must be so Say then he's dead; for by this means the woe Divided may be overcome, which all At once, might cause another funeral, And kill us too. Such undivided fears Might even overwhelm, and drown with 〈◊〉 tears Us, now poor Orphans: who can only say We had a father. But this kind delay I could not have; for it was my hard fate To hear of's death, (in this unfortunate) Before his sickness: So that all the woe Which I could either fear, or undergo, Seized me at once; that I have cause to be Overwhelmed with tears, and melt with Elegy. Yet pardon this my sorrow, thou that hears I lost a father, who deserved the tears Of more then's children: Such a father he As many wish, though few enjoy: to me So dear and tender, that I cannot say What gratitude requires, much less repay. Well, he is gone, and in him we may see Our humane frailty, and mortality. Death knows no difference; Kings and Subjects have Their periods, and Exit in the grave. This life's a sea wherein we all do sail, Some tossed with waves, some with a gentler gale Come calmly to the shore: some find that sea Which we Pacifique 1 〈…〉 call; yet all must be Hurried at last into the fatal waves Of the dead sea 2 〈…〉 , and so unto their graves With tears transported. For my father he By no untimely doth, no cruelty Came to his grave; this blessing he did find, Where he received his breath, there he resigned It willingly to heaven: nor in the spring, And morning of his life, nor withering With too much age, but in those years which he A blessing found, and not a misery. Thus died my father; nay he is not dead, Although he be entombed, and buried Deep in the grave, so that we need not weep, He is but go●▪ and sweetly fall'n asleep, " And will again awake: no good man dies, " But as the daystar sets again to rise. 'Tis truth; nay 'twas impossible that he Should dye in that blessed time, th' Nativity Of life itself ● 6. : no, no that was an hour, Which put a period to all the power Of death, and th' grave; this did my father see, With joy of heart; and then desired to be Freed from those troubles, and the many woes, Which sin begets; and then did thirst for those, Those better joys. And having got release From all those miseries, he went in peace To his long long-desired home, where he Finds sweetest peace, and immortality. Tho. Barlow. Upon my dream at OXON: which was this. I being at Oxon: and not knowing that my father was either dead, or sick, near about the time he died, dreamt he was dead; and the impression was so violent, that it awoke me; and being awake, I found that, that dreamed-sorrow had caused real tears, which had strangely wet even the pillow where my head lay. IT was ' i'th' night, when the earth's gloomy shade Involved had our hemisphere, and made Deep silence to the world; when did appear Those many glorious lamps, which in that sphere Are firmly fixed for ever, that which we Do justly call the world's rich canopy. Then in the dead of night, when sleep did close My weary eyes, and nature did compose My outward limbs to rest, than did I see Strange apparitions, and a Tragedy In which my father acted: I did joy To see my dear, dear father, though a toy, A dream did represent him. But anon The scene was changed, and amid the throng My father was to die: it was his fate (As I conceived) only to personate And act a funeral; only to die In show, and in a seeming Tragedy. But this soon altered, and methought I see My dearest father dead, cold dead, and we All mourning by him; when anon they call Away, away, come to the funeral. And then overwhelmed with woe, a thousand fears And griefs possess my troubled soul, and tears Gush from my sleeping eyes; not only dreamed And fancied tears, but real; such as streamed From true, not feigned sorrow; though to me The ground was only dream, and fantasy. All this I dreamed, and near about that day, Wherein my father entered on his way To blessed Elysium; where for ever he Finds sweetest peace, and immortality. Say now profound Philosopher, and you That ferret natures mysteries; say how It was but possible my father's fall Should so possess my soul; how's funeral Should cause such violence of grief in me, Who neither heard, nor saw his obsequy? Can things at such a distance move? can fears Arise from unknown danger? or can tears Such real tears spring from a cause so small As bare imagination? can all Your speculations this knot untie And give a cause from true Philosophy? Or was't from higher cause, those powers divine, Which rule the universe, who do untwine The thread of life they visted? was't that I Might really partake in Elegy And tears, as well as loss? was't to fulfil (At least in part) my dying fathers will; Who often wished me there? for thus my heart Was present at his grave, and bore a part, In that sad funeral? no, no, so high We need not go, as sacred ecstasy, Or any raptures, to unfold a cause Of this dream'd-reall sorrow, when the laws Of nature will afford one: we do see, In well affected bodies, th' misery Of any part affects the whole; we know, In trees the highest part suffers, if below The root be perished; when any pain Torments our head, how suddenly each vein Each part partakes in sorrow, 'cause from thence As from a fountain comes that influence Which animates the whole. And can he die Which gave me life, and being, and yet I Be unaffected still? unless from thence I have a post, or some intelligence To say he's dead? oh no, it was in me Natures just law, and inbred sympathy, Anticipating knowledge, caused those tears Which did not come from known, though real fears. Tho: Barlow. To his most loving Brother R. Barlow upon his Father's death. YOur father's gone, and you are left behind Heir of his fortunes, may you of his mind, And virtues too be heir; that men may ●●e Him still alive in his posterity. For while the branches spring, while they do thrive, And flourish, we do know the root's alive, From whence they sprung; although perhaps it be Deeply enclosed in the earth: so we Who have our father lost, and in the grave Enclosed him with sorrow; yet we have This happy consolation, that he Cannot be wholly dead, while's progeny Survives in health: oh may those branches small Which yet remain after his funeral, Be evidence he lives! he lives! may he Blessed in himself, be so in's progeny. Tho: Barlow. Apostrophe ad Patrem defunctum. REst, rest blessed soul in happiness, and be Secured from troubles, which mortality In this frail life doth undergo: thy mind Shall those sweet joys, and speculations find Which do transcend expression: thou shalt know And feel that happiness, which we below Cannot conceive: there's that Elysian grove Where crowned with joys, and honour, thou mayst rove With Kings, and Emperors for ever: there No awful distance is observed, where Even all are Kings. Can any one be bound, To bow to others, whereas all are crowned Heirs of a Kingdom, where the subjects be Borne unto diadems, and majesty Imperial; there even thousands▪ all Are first borne to a Monarchy; and shall Each one inherit all; strange tenure here, And such a Gavel-kind▪ as other where Is quite impossible: heirs all shall be, Yet no division, no posterity Shall e'er succeed unto themselves, but they Shall be immortal, and for ever stay Eternal heirs of that blessed land; no wave Shall their calm sea enrage; no, they shall have A gentle gale; no dusky cloud their sphere Shall e'er overcast, there heaven shall be clear For ever: to them that blessed Sun shall be Cause of perpetual serenity. Say now poor soul, who art afraid to die, And tread this way to immortality, And happiness; say, say, who would not have A speedy funeral, and wish a grave Where he might sleep? for death doth not annoy▪ But is the happy preface to our joy. This way's my father gone; upon the shore Of that blessed Canaan now, where he no more Shall any tears or troubles find; but be Perpetual heir of true felicity. Sleep then blessed soul, I will not wrong thee so, As wish thee here again with us in woe. Enjoy that bliss, which we with weary mind And watery eyes may seek, but ne'er shall find, Do what we can, nor may we hope, till we Dismissed from earth do come to heaven, and thee. Tho: Barlow. To his worthy friend Mr Thomas Barlow, son of the truly pious and lately deceased Richard Barlow. ON whom shall I these blubbered lines bestow, But you good Sir, where such respect I owe? And on you chiefly, for your secret woe The burden of our grief doth undergo. We but as strangers on the shore lament A common shipwreck: you that vessel rend, To whom such love and duty you did owe, What wonder if your griefs do overflow? But spare your tears, though you have cause to moon, Yet to persist in sorrow you have none. You see beneath the circuit of the sun, All that's made best is instantly undone. Perhaps the greater is your happiness, Because to you it seemeth to be less. It's ill to be too well, ease is disease, And deadly too, in parts that death doth seize. Then when in any part of us we joy More than we should; lest that might us destroy, Heaven takes it quickly off (as 'twere by stealth) And by the want supplies our want of health. Wipe off those tears, sing Hallelujahs rather, Grieve that you lost, joy that so good, a father. So good said I? stay muse and that rehearse, Here is a subject fitting for thy verse. Too good for us, with graces so inspired, Such heavenly mould the Angels long desired, And therefore they so quickly did transport His Saintlike soul, to their celestial Court. There was no copper in this mineral, Not counterfeit, nor hypocritical: With friends or strangers he used no disguise, His words, his thoughts, his deeds did symbolise. No harder iron did his temper mar, Malice to none, no envy, hatred, jar. Friendly he was, soft, mild to all; and more Unkind unto himself, then to the poor. So just, so wise, s'upright in every thing, As stopped the venom of foul envies sting. A husband dear, a father tender, kind, Though not in gifts, yet in a bounteous mind Exceeding most, nay all of his estate, A pattern most complete to imitate For parents all, who usually bestow To children that can drive the cart and plow, More than to those that set themselves apart, By study for to gain some liberal art; More to those that feed sheep, or hew a block, Then those that labour for to feed Christ's flock. No disposition such in this rare piece, Not land, nor corn was spared, not ox, nor fleece, Nor other thing: whereby he might advance His sons unto a learned inheritance. Heaven with success hath blessed his care; the same Yourself, though silent, do aloud proclaim. With Saints above he liveth blessed now, Below in virtuous deeds, in's fame, in you. Matthew Wilkinson, Artium Magist. è Coll. Reginae. Upon the death of his dear and very loving Uncle, Rich: Barlow. I Cannot weep in verse: one thought of thee (Dear friend) put's me quite past all Poetry: That language suits not well with grief; our cries Flow not (me thinks) from pens, so well, as eyes. No sooner is one word writ, but on it Down falls a tear, and drowns thy name halfe-writ. Let such as ne'er did know thee, or thy worth, Go make themselves known thus, and copy forth Their own names to their Reader, who may see Their nimble wit, and rhyming faculty: Such merry to yes they best know to bequeath, Who have no cause to sorrow for thy death. Here then my dumbe-strucke muse begg's silence; she For want of words, thus weeps an Elegy. [he's dead.] Nay say not so; oh do not wound Our ears with that sad tale: that kill sound Must by degrees sink gently into our hearts: Speak it not all at once: let's have't by parts, Say he's not well: stop there; let us first try To hear the Prologue, than the Tragedy: Tell us not yet, [he's dead:] or if he be, Tell't in a whisper, or uncertainty: we'll not believe it else: we needs must stick To think him dead, till first we hear he's sick. Oh! but it is too true; only we do Feign the report false, 'cause we wish it so. It was thy pious policy, to steal A close departure; Lest our prayers and zeal Might have prevailed with heaven; and so have gained Thy term of days enlarged; and thee detained From bliss: thus thus our too too, officious tongue Out of fond kindness might have done thee wrong. Let us then chide thy goodness: this was it took thee from us: hadst thou not been more fit For that celestial Choir of Angels, than The further company of sinful men, Thou hadst alas—. Alas my mazed woe Begins again to wish thee here below. Nay rest, (blessed soul) 'twill be the better way, That we strive to come to thee, and thou stay: Herein thy death us benefit's, that we Now long the more for heaven to be with thee. Tho: Smith Artium Bac. & Coll. Reginae Oxon: Alumnus. To the sad memory of his late deceased dear father, Richard Barlow. WHere shall I first begin? or, if I lend My grief a tongue, where shall I make an end? Methinks those farewell-teares, which lately I Spied trickling from your eyes, teach me to cry; Methinks even that last blessing which you gave, Seems a curse, 'cause the last that I must have. Had I been present, when your fever came, And burning fits, my tears had quenched that flame; Had I been present—. Oh let me here pause T' expostulate: tell me, what was the cause That * 〈…〉 then I was dismissed? was it that I Might practise here to write an Elegy? To pen your Epitaph? nay, was't not rather 'Cause thus you would provide me of a father? Oh but such tokens of your providence, Whiles they should cure my wound, renew the sense. Grief strikes me dumb: for want of words and art, I'll teach my eyes to speak the other part. George Barlow youngest son of his deceased father. Upon the much lamented death of R. B. he's dead! and must we therefore grieve and mourn▪ 'Twere to repine that ever he was borne. When weak old age doth gently fall asleep, 'Tis foul ingratitude to cry and weep. Let tender withered plants deserve our tears; Which dead our forward hopes of fruitful years: Which quickly taken off, and only known, Are in a minute lopped, as soon as shown. Here 'tis not so; full distance sure and meet His swathings sunders from his winding sheet. Oh not on thy dear hearse, or thy fresh dust, Pour we these tears! As if here death unjust Had wronged thee, in exalting thee; and been Unmerciful, that from these times of sin Hath freed thy longing soul. Alas we know 'Twas time for thee, for heaven long ago. 'Tis for our sakes we weep; for whom God stayed And held thy soul off; and this burden laid Of a long life upon thee, that so we Might by thy stay be drawn for company, That now are punished in thy bliss, and see God's wrath to us in being good to thee. To us thou still diest young, and this thy slight Seems early taken, though not ta'en till night. To our desires alas! what's one short span Whole nature's date, for want of thee good man? Whom many days and years, yea no time could Make tedious to us; whom no age make old. But is he dead then? true, nay false it is, He did not dye, that in eternal bliss For life of comfort, changed but life's annoy, And thus he died, and thus he lives in joy. He died in show then; but yet lives indeed In heaven, and hearts of good men. Died, to speed Of glory here: and in that surer place To wear a crown of ever living grace. Then die he never can while virtue lives, For He and She are still correlatives. Sic deflevit Thomas Cleburne, Art. Bac. Coll. Reg. Alumnus. Upon the much lamented death of the truly religious Richard Barlow. IS't you most dreadful powers, ye sisters three, That do unlace each mortal artery? That shiver sinews, rending every vein, Divorcing soul and body, cut in twain This Microcosm? yea; brag not tho; one can Rebuild (o bliss) that curious frame of man, And raise from out our common mother's lap, Our drowsy corpse, after a winter's nap. Let's wade with pen, or in a waterish ray, Or at least sigh a word, he's dead; the day Is shut up in a shade, whose brightest beams Did shine on many, hence now flow these streams Of brackish water to put out our light, And spreads the curtains of the darksome night, Let's rest content, he heavenly joys doth gain, He lived to dye, and died to live again: Farewell (blessed Saint) crowned with eternal fame, Though rapt by death; we'll honour still thy name▪ Lancelot Daws. Coll. Reginae Alumnus. An Elegy upon the lamented death of Richard Barlow, late of Langill in Westmooreland. WHat? have not yet your daily cries Melted the clouds, and caused the skies, To bear a sympathy? hard rocks would split To smallest atoms, hearing us To sing our doleful mittimus. When virtue for a crown, a tomb doth get. But 'tis not sighs will serve the turn, Come, pay thy rites unto an urn Sad muse: let echo tell each wall, He clipped thy wings, nor blush to hear That heaven lies above thy sphere, 'Twill prove a prejudice to rise, than fall. Sleep on (blessed soul) eternity Shall strain thy sweetest lullaby: Let envy, with her brood near cease to fret, Triumph in peace: no gnawing care Can with such glory bear a share; Look down (and laugh) how far above thou'rt set. Methinks I view the wreathes of bay, Thy endless conquest to display, And how those dazzling coronets fit a head So well deserving: but— I fail To lend thy name a swifter gale For (what needs more?) thou liv'st for ever, dead. Another, that he died a little after Christmasse-day. WHen Simeon saw his Saviour, he cries Lord, 'tis enough, shut up my weary eyes: When our (late) Simeon got a fuller view Of his transcendent light, he bade, adieu. Amoric & officii ergò, Tho: Tullius. Coll. Reg. Alumnus. Upon the lamented death of Richard Barlow, late of Langill in Westmooreland, who died December 29. 1636. his sickness beginning with a cold, and shortly after he, and it ending with a fever. WIthin the bowels of this sacred earth Lies one, as of no high, so no vile birth. His fortunes like to virtue, kept the mean, Not puffed with this, nor pinched with that extreme. When he in peace had threescore years drawn breath, (Beloved as far as known) nature, not death With solemn joy ceased on him as a price, Glad she for heaven had such a sacrifice. Flames are to others tortures, but they come To him as triumph, or a martyrdom. He (like Elias) round begirt with fire, Ascended heaven; flames must needs aspire. His fever had not heat from surfeit, passion, Or lust, the three inflamers now in fashion, But (as the purest fire the Chimicks hold Is forced from ice) was kindled with a cold. Had it been rage of common heat, no doubt But his dear children's tears had put it out. Although he do in six * fair Emblems stand Transcribed to future ages: yet this land (The heat of his death generating) shall See that he multiplied at's funeral; The good example of his life and fate Shall haply all the virtues propagate. L. N. 〈◊〉 To the Reader. I Am no Poet, nor ever sent I verse Unto the press; this only to the hearse Of my dear father; not to show my skill Or vein in Poëtry, but t'express a will Prone to my father's honour, though to me, Nothing redound, but shame, and infamy. I fear no censure; nay, some may approve If not my slender Poetry, my love To my dear father: whom the muses shall Preserve alive, in spite of's funeral, And all death's cruelty: by them shall he Live in the hearts, and dearest memo●● Of all his friends; this blessing henshall have To free him from forgetfulness, and th' grave. Sic flevit THOMAS BARLOW charissimi Patris defuncti filius aetate, & dolore maximus. FINIS.