A POEM, To the Memory OF D ʳ JOSEPH BEAUMONT.   

A POEM, Dedicated to the Memory OF D ʳ Joseph Beaumond Regius Professor OF DIVINITY, IN CAMBRIDGE.  
By Thomas Barker A. M. Cantabr.  
— Nec Te tua plurima, Pentheu,  
Labentem Pietas, nec Apollinis Infula texit.  
Virg.  
CAMBRIDGE, Printed by john Hayes, for Edward Hall Bookseller there. 1700.   

A POEM, Dedicated to the Memory OF D ʳ JOSEPH BEAUMONT R. P. of Divinity, IN CAMBRIDGE.  

TRUE; the Perfume and Beauty fails of Flowers,  
When weary Nature does recall her Powers.  
Arts have their Pitch and rise, we know, no Higher;  
But sink to Rudeness, and in Mists retire.  
In Wealth and State, Towns have been said to Reign,  
Which their Old Quarries have devoured again.  
But, O sad Instances of Frailty Those!  
And None more Lasting can our Skill compose.   

Give Us the Draft of an Accomplished Man;  
Make his Dimensions, Large as Fancy can:  
Choice of Embellishments on Him bestow;  
Grace him with All, that's Perfect here below.  
Restore us BEAUMONT, That Exact Design  
Of All that's Solid, and of All that's Fine;  
Of Nature in Decay the Lucky Pride;  
A Treasure, which once lost, can never be supplied:  
One Perfect Man's worth All the Earth beside.   

Yet must This Man, This BEAUMONT must descend;  
For, like an Arch He does Arise, and Bend.   

Such Gifts of Nature, and their Use so Just;  
Such Lofty Songs, and Sense so well discussed;  
Such Grace of Body, well-drawn Vital Line,  
Fortunes acquired by Qualities Divine;  
All These are raised to that Sacred CHAIR,  
Which, safe in Conduct, while his Weight was there,  
Shone round the World like the Phaebean Ray;  
But showed a better Heaven, and a more Lasting Day.  
What Strange, what Numerous Things were here to meet?  
How wise That Maker, could the Frame Complete!   

Yet BEAUMONT dies; That rare Contexture sinks,  
Low, as the Animal that never thinks.   

A Thousand various Hits were first essayed,  
And in their Way a Thousand Worthies made,  
Ere for a BEAUMONT the bright Figure shone,  
Which could for Ages that it cost, atone.  
He, thus Extracted from the Ages past,  
Repaid, like Gold Refined the Metal's waste.   

But what's the End of All this Skill and Care?  
Only to feed a Grave, did Heaven prepare?  
Will Fate, of Course, break a Consummate Piece?  
At Nothing Great, will Death's Approaches cease?  
Is Nothing, ne'er so Exquisite, secure?  
Cannot this Quintessence of Time Endure?  
Fair Structure! formed so Critically True,  
With Native Strength to Clean Proportions due!  
Who would have thought, it should have dropped like Ours?   

But thus Heaven chooses to reveal its Powers:  
To Make such Work excessive Force it shows;  
But Greater Strength that Conscious Virtue knows,  
Which what it Makes with Care, with Ease Foregoes.   

Yes, Thus it is: The Finished Man's resigned,  
And All that's left, Lives in the Mourner's mind:  
Immense th' Idea, That, which BEAUMONT leaves behind!  
The Numerous Mourners that His Death has made,  
With Joined Reflections may express his Shade:  
No One has Thought for his Whole vast Desert;  
And Each, can find sufficient in a Part,  
To fill his Eyes, as it has filled his Heart.  
So fraughted with Various Excellence was He,  
He touches All the Good in Each Degree:  
His Fate afflicts, even Those that but Pretend;  
Or Fancy that they have, what we Commend.   

How then must Pallas and the Muse's sigh?  
Who Greatest Virtues, and most Loss descry?  
How must Religion beat her Tender breast,  
This Theologue, Her Miracle deceased?  
How must the Church lament the Greatest Priest?  
But, as Cam weeps; not Seven-mouthed Nile of ' yore  
Moaned her Lost Gods, as Cam does now deplore  
The Chief Professor of the World: BEAUMONT ' s no more!   

The Oracle is ceased, that Cam renowned;  
In bands of Silence is the Genius bound.  
Not Delphos, when Apollo left the Seat,  
And to New Regions made his Famed Retreat,  
Felt half the Grief, That Cam for BEAUMONT feels.  
Distressed Nymph! what Anguish She reveals?  
Dishevelled; Wild; O how perplexed she goes!  
Her Head all Water to her Bosom Flows.  
Through gloomy Willows now, Behold she flies;  
And now breaks forth, and fills the Vale with Cries.   

BEAUMONT, she cries, with my lost joys return.  
Why leave You Cam, and give her up to mourn?  
Return my Fame; my Life, my Glory, come.  
Delicious Tongue, must Thou be ever Dumb?  
I, Pensive Cam, still knock upon your Tomb.  
Oh! Could my Cries this Dismal Slumber break—  
' Twoved be my Wish, to Live to hear You speak.   

Sweet, Dear your Voice! such Eloquence of Tongue  
Flowed from your Lips, and Accents roul'd along.  
O what a Master, in my Learned Schools!  
Informing Reason from the Sacred Rules!  
Might not such Charms exempt you from This— Death?  
Well would Immortal Sense, sound in Immortal Breath.   

But Heavens! when I survey Your Larger Sphere,  
How Strong, how Bright you made the Truth appear!  
While Wondering Nations crowded round to hear.  
Your Ready Thoughts, of Wisdom how profuse?  
Your Language, Born Correct for Noble Use?  
The Nations stood amazed at your Command;  
His own Each pitied, and All blest Your Land.  
No more they'll Bless, and 'twill no more be said,  
That Cam is happy, now Her BEAUMONT ' s Dead.   

Shall we Indeed, no more his Voice attend?  
Style, Judgement, Quaintness, from Him date their End.  
In Him their Delicate Enchantments broke;  
The Glory gone, that shone round All He spoke.  
Rome, that long since resigned her Armed Sway,  
Reigned in her Language at her Power's Decay;  
And even This Reign is to the Period come,  
Since BEAUMONT, the Last Monarch's in his Tomb.   

Pardon, Great Man; Only to speak of Words,  
Among your Praises but the Lest affords.  
Yet such Expressions yours! and such Success!  
No Mind, so Barbarous, but could feel you press  
Your Sense Heroic in Your Roman Dress.  
All whom the Latian Arms did ere subdue,  
Their Old Submission, and first Frights renew  
At Latian Speech, as it was used by You.   

The Modern Offspring of Rome's former Gown,  
That talk of Worlds and Triumphs, not their own;  
Invading Us, upon a Foreign Coast  
Met with the Terseness which Themselves had lost.  
They Came, they Herd, and they Were Overcome;  
So did you quail the New, with Ancient Rome:  
With Caesar's Motto, in Reverse, you sent 'em Home.   

Of Caesar's Arms with which he pitched the Field,  
Who wore a Pen, as well as Spear and Shield;  
Only the Pen the Modern Romans Wield.  
But 'tis not Caesar's Style does Yours withstand;  
Yours, with more Force than Tully's can command,  
And wrench the Weapon from his Rougher hand.   

BEAUMONT! with Yours, whose Tongue may we compare?  
And who can speak the Triumphs of your CHAIR?   

When e'er Our Schools have seen, Those whom the State  
To Sacred Trusts thought Worthy to translate,  
Enter the Lists in some Sublime Debate;  
When e'er those Sages gave, that Proof of Skill  
Which might the Promise of their Fame fulfil:  
Amidst the Heat, when High the Contest rose;  
And Sense poured down on Sense, and Art did Art oppose:  
Still the Professor and his Side prevailed;  
So strong His Guard, so bravely He assailed.   

Absolute BEAUMONT! Your Controulless Sway!  
When You encountered, none need ask— The Day.  
None can the Conquests that You gained compute;  
Conquest displayed so frequent in Dispute,  
That Just Degrees not Doctors could pursue,  
Whose Purple had not ta'en a Blush from You.   

None can forget, the Ardour and the Life,  
The Generous Onsets, and the Graceful strife:  
To fetch down Truth, how BEAUMONT pierced the Skies?  
And how He searched the Depths where Error lies?  
What was his Skill, each Subject so dissolved?  
What Clouds he sometimes cast; Then cleared the Theme involved!  
Theses Vnravelled changed their Destined Side;  
A Mutual War among their Parts he tried:  
Their Pregnant Bowels felt their own Alarms,  
As Cadmus' Brood fell by Intestine Arms.   

Yet is he now no more. Blessed Saint! Forgive,  
If Our Desires should call You back to Live.  
Why were Our Joyous Souls indulged so high?  
The Long end not, though the Pleasures die.  
Who would not wish, to hear You once again  
Exceed Our Thoughts, and Your own Fame maintain?  
Pleasant th' Idea of an Heroe's Might!  
More Glorious still the Prospect of his Fight!  
But the Learned warrior's Deeds have more Extent,  
Safer to See, harder to Represent.   

Was it not Transport All, to see You Wield,  
And glance aloft the Christian's Radiant Shield?  
How Sweet the Terror! when You changed Your Art,  
And left your Faith, and shook a Fury's Dart.  
Both Worlds, Concerned, sure thronged to the Dispute;  
Your Words Harmonious, and Your Sense Acute,  
Might draw the Seraphs, and their Grandeur suit.   

If then, O Then, such Being's hovered there;  
And Satan used the Freedom of his Air:  
How the Confounded Fiend blushed (as he could)  
When You for Error, and its Party stood!  
He could not Bear it, in a Man so Good.  
How glowed his Haggared Breast with Jealous Rage,  
To see, His own Loved Subtlety for Heaven engage?  
But Gracious Angels, that observed You blest  
With such High Genius as Themselves possessed;  
Surprised look round, examine every Face,  
Ask, What New Angel That in BEAVMONT's Place?  
But now They know him, their Surprise they ' excuse;  
The Man They have's so like, the Angel that we Lose.   

Prodigious BEAUMONT! Still we mourn Thy Fate;  
How can Our Stupid Grief Thy Worth relate?  
When Just Conclusions from Effects we drew;  
We in Your Works did Nature's Symm'try view.  
You Her Professor were of Native Right;  
Your Works Like Her's in Number, Measure, Weight,  
Your Acts, Like Her's, were followed by Delight.  
In You she showed Productions, free from Pain;  
No Fop could Laugh, no Critic could Complain:  
While Grins and Snarls of Tortured Nature, They  
In their Resentments, to our Sight convey;  
You Check their Ferment, and their Frets allay.   

O BEAUMONT! who but You's without his Fault?  
Who is there Else, that no one Dares assault?  
You Mighty Man, Thus far Man's Race excelled:  
Your Worth, more Reverend than the Place You held.  
What Others, can The CHAIR from Censure guard?  
Your are Your Station's Safety and Reward.  
To Heights Serene Your vigorous Merit raised  
The Proud acknowledged, and the Envious praised.   

You, Undisturbed, stood like Olympus' Head;  
And saw Our Passions far beneath You spread.  
Among Themselves You might their Rage descry,  
But All Your own Concerns were placed too High.  
Not Lettered Insolence attempted You;  
Not the Poor man, but thought Your Incomes due:  
Want had no Stings to irritate the Spleen,  
And no Conceit appeared, while Your Deserts were seen.   

Established, Single, Pattern of Esteem!  
More truely-Great, than Others hope to Seem!  
Raising where You Adorned the Ample Post!  
O! ne'er may Truth nor Honour Thence be lost.  
Whom shall the Church Prefer to Fellow You?  
Whom of her Numerous Sons, in brightest View?  
You so Complete, All They are found the Less;  
And seem Alike, so short of Your Excess:  
As Atoms They, to Your Extent appear;  
They make no Figure, Undistinguished are.  
You, BEAUMONT, Doubly bar th' Elective voice,  
First You Exceed and Then Confound the Choice.  
You Shining, like the Sun claimed all the Skies;  
They, All at once, like Stars when You are set, arise.   

So dies The Man, Inimitably Great;  
And His Sepulchral Pomp's contrived by Fate.  
The Worlds left Dark; sad Dulness is our Doom:  
Small sprinkled Lights now twinkle in the Gloom.   

And— Thus th' Unparall'd Professor goes?  
All hopes to have Our Loss supplied we lose?  
But is there no Relief left by his Muse?  
What News will his Enlarged Psyche tell,  
That but Too long did in Confinement dwell?  
If for the Past Our sad Remembrance grieves,  
The Poet speaks, where the Professor leaves.  
The sorrows raised by Him, His Lays may calm;  
And his Own Spices will This Dead embalm.  
To lose a Worthy, Great as as Our Desire,  
What healing Charms does not the Pain require?  
But BEAVMONT's Death does give us, BEAVMONT's Lyre.  
Amidst our Anguish, while th' Impression's strong,  
To our Mad Grief he applies the Melody of Song.  
His is the Proper Way (His always True)  
To soothe Our Souls, and mitigate Our Woe;  
For who could BEAUMONT, but Himself, outdo?  
Or shall we Rather say; such kind Intent  
Would more our Envy, than Our Grief, prevent?  
Despairing Rage that sets the Gall to flow,  
Might have Repined; did He his Songs bestow  
Only In Heaven, and not on Us Below.   

'Tis well: we claim the high Sonorous Bard,  
Since the Divine's too Distant to be heard.  
His Measures now of Mortal Prose are done,  
And Deathless Verse succeeds in Loftier Tone:  
He is not Dead, but puts a Nobler Figure on.  
BEAUMONT ascends in his Poetic Fire;  
Seen more August, like Heroes, when they ' expire.  
His Genius now New Graces does unfold;  
And speaks, and moveth, just as those Gods of Old  
Whose airy Feet disclaimed like Ours to Tread,  
And the Spheres warbled in what e'er they said.   

Psyche! thou Spirit of thy Master's Soul!  
The Earth encircle, while he mounts the Pole.  
By Grateful Men be his Last Gift confessed  
Of all His Works, who judged it so, the Best.  
His Other Works, like Beauties that may fade,  
Required his Presence and his Living Aid:  
But Powerful Verse to its own Force he leaves,  
'Tis both Inspired, and Inspiration gives;  
His Muse erects a Monument that Lives.   

So Bright his Mind; his Thought so vast and strong;  
His Voice all Tune; a Sacred Lyre his Tongue;  
What could he Write to show Himself Entire?  
What Lines express, All that in Him we ' admire?  
'Tis Verse; 'Tis Psyche must his Image hold;  
With his own Life endowed, It rises from Her Mould.  
As Talismans', whose Virtues draw their Birth  
From Stars above, rule like Those Stars on Earth;  
So may She Influence, may She succeed,  
May We Transcribe the Person that we Read.   

While All our Muses dress by Psyche's Lines;  
And Drossy Wit her Pious Flame refines:  
In BEAVMONT's Heavenly Breast new Joys she'll raise;  
Add to his Pleasures, and increase his Lays:  
She with His Strains the Cherubs shall inspire;  
And Multiply Herself, through the Celestial Quire.   
FINIS.