Sr Nathaniel Barnardiston of Ketton in Suff. Kt Obiit A. D. 1653 ●t 66. F. H. van. Hove Sculp.    

Suffolk's Tears: OR ELEGIES On that Renowned Knight Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston. A Gentleman eminent for Piety to God, love to the Church, and fidelity to his Country; and therefore Highly honoured by them all. He was Five times chosen Knight of the Shire, for the County of Suffolk, and once Burgess for Sudbury. In the discharge of which Trust, he always approved Himself Faithful; as by his great sufferings for the Freedoms and Liberties of his country, abundantly appear. A Zealous Promoter of the Preaching of the Gospel, manifested by his great care, in presenting Men, Able, Learned, and Pious, to the places whereof he had the Patronage; and also by his large and extraordinary bounty towards the advancing of Religion and Learning, both at home, and in foreign Plantations among the Heathen.  Dignum laude virum Musa vetat Mori. 
London, Printed by R. I. for Tho. Newberry at the Three Lions in Cornhill, near the Royal Exchange. 1653.   

To the worshipful and highly honoured Lady, the Lady Jane Barnardiston. An Offertory.  
THrice Noble Lady, spare that melting Bead,  
Our sorrows want no jewel from your head;  
Still let those silver drops, that lightly lie  
Like little deluged worlds within your eye;  
Fixed abide in their own brightest sphere,  
His fame wants not those pendents for her ear;  
Those falling stars rob heaven, we need not thence  
Borrow our griefs, or tax you with expense:  
Behold how every Mourner brings his sheet  
To wipe your eyes, and weep himself; 'tis meet  
That this so public loss by th' country's charge  
Should mourned be: Spare, Madam, then: this large  
And thicker Volume that is here annexed,  
Is but our Comment on that public text:  
Come Argus, Hieraclicus, lend your eyes  
To pay on's tomb a liquid sacrifice;  
Lo all the grass that round about him lie,  
Hangs full of tears shed from Dame nature's eye,  
See how sad Philomele (that yonder sits,  
And to the dancing twig her music fits)  
Now mourns for him, the silver brook runs on,  
Grumbling to leave those loved banks, whereon  
A Mansion once he had; that's now set round  
With Cypress trees, and with their branches crowned;  
So dark, it seems night's mantle for to borrow,  
And may be called, the gloomy den of sorrow.  
Ere since he died; the Heavens their griefs to tell,  
Daily in tears to earth's wet bosom fell;  
Not in an April storm, or those in June,  
Whose trembling Cadents makes it rain in tune;  
But like a grave December's day, or those  
Who mourn in Cicero's stile, and weep in prose.  
Madam, you see all nature's wat'ry store  
Attends this sable day, weep you no more;  
Angels, that on your eyes with bottles wait  
To catch your falling tears, do now retreat  
With vessels full; anon again they'll stoop,  
And lightly hover round the mourning troop,  
Whilst I in silence do his Shrine adore;  
If worship doth offend, I then implore,  
And crave a favour, Madam, 'tis this one,  
Add to his memory no pictured stone;  
Lest whilst within the Church my vows I pay,  
I to the Image of this Saint should pray.  
Madam, your most humble and faithful servitor: Samuel Faireclough. Jun.   
ELEGIES ON That renowned Knight SIR Nathaniel Barnardiston.  

AN acrostic elegy on my ever Honoured Friend Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston, who faithfully in all employments served his Country, was renowned for Piety, and exemplary in Religion, died the 25. of July, 1653.  

Shall such Friends die, and my Muse idle be?  
Is't possible? can such stupidity  
Remain in me, and I not dead with thee?  
Nature don't give, but lend its life to men,  
And at its pleasure calls it back again.  
The image graved on man, God's right doth show,  
His image 'tis; let Caesar have his due.  
And in this microcosm we plainly see  
No less than part of God's Divinity,  
In smaller letters; for the Soul's a spark  
Even of his kindling, and (though in the dark  
Lodged in the grave, the body seems to be)  
Let's hope, and we shall find reunity.   

Body and Soul shall join by heaven's great power  
As once they were, before the parting hour:  
Rally the atoms shall, and then each part  
Not losing ought, by God's Almighty Art  
Attain shall to its just and proper due,  
Returning to each corpse its former hue;  
Descend then shall the Soul, and with a kiss  
Its ancient friend awake to perfect bliss:  
So these new married couple joyfully  
To heaven ascend, and match eternity.  
Oheavenly music! endless harmony!  
None can desire to live, that's fit to die.   

So slept our former Patriots (when they  
Had served their country) in a bed of clay;  
Flesh may incinerate, when Man doth die,  
The body in the grave may sleeping lie;  
But there's a spark remains, which shall return,  
And reinform those ashes in their urn,  
Which when the last days morning shall draw nigh,  
Shall raise its flame by heavenly chemistry:  
So springs the Phoenix, from which Rise  
She's ever called the Bird of Paradise.   

Si quis; qui bonus, & pius est? inquirit; Iësus  
Respondet, verus Nomine Nathaniel.   

Inquire whose good? Christ will thee tell,  
It is a true Nathaniel.   
WILLIAM SPRING baronet.   

An elegy containing a Dialogue between the Author and his Muse, and between Death and an Angel.  

MAke haste my Muse, 
The Author to his Muse.  lay off thy brighter plume,  
The sable wings of darkest Night assume,  
Cover thy head with blackness, do not fail  
Thy brow with mournful shadow now to veil;  
Thine eyes now cloud, which may pour down apace,  
A shower of brinish tears upon thy face.   

Fill up thy breast with sighs, and saddest grief,  
With Rachel's sorrows, that refued relief;  
Now let a living Spring thy sorrow feed,  
That may supply, with running streams, thy need:  
The depth in silence pass, noise not the same  
Lest Nature hear, and do dissolve her frame;   

Attire thyself in saddest mourning weed,  
Put on thy tragic Buskins, haste with speed  
Unto the place where grisly Death doth dwell, 
The house of death.   
Within the ground in lowest darkest cel;  
Pale kerchered sickness lieth at the door,  
To him the Porter openeth every hour.   

About, above, the Monuments remain,  
Of old and young whom direful death hath slain:  
There the world's Victor vanquished doth lie,  
There Caesar, Croesus, and grave Cato by;  
There David, Jedidiah, Daniel,  
And there with these our true Nathaniel.   

Of doleful Ebony the Portal's made,  
The roof of fatal dismal Ewe is laid,  
The pillars of black polished Marble be,  
That may endure till time you ended see;  
The walls entire of Adamantine rock,  
The two-leaved gates of Steel, so key and lock.   

The chambers there with Coffins plancherd sure,  
Corruptions sap will not let long endure;  
These worn and torn, in time renewed again,  
The cost of future Funerals maintain:  
The lower floor's of earth, most rooms be full,  
Lo here the dead men's bones, and there the skull.   

The trophies of triumphant Death are there,  
The rooms all hung with whited linen are;  
The corpse entombed with juice of Poppy smeared,  
There rest and sleep in dust, no danger feared,  
Till that these bodies, putrefactions prey,  
Be raised up to life at the last Day.   

The way is beaten to this house of Death, 
A description of Death.   
The fatal enemy of Mortals breath.  
A raw-boned carcase, of his Head the hair  
And flesh is fall'n, and left the skull all bare;  
His eyes no eyes, cannot be seen not see,  
Worm-eaten nose, one jaw, no teeth hath he:   

Yet heaps of men he daily doth devour,  
And hundreds fall before him in an hour.  
Within his cruel breast he hath no heart,  
Yet full of courage, and with deadly dart  
He kills, yet neither arm he hath, nor hand,  
He hath no feet, yet walks o'er sea and land.   

Nor arteries, flesh, nor sinews (wonder)  
Hath he, all his joints they are asunder;  
His bones, there one, and here another lies,  
He smites, there one, and here another dies;  
Haste thither, knock, call, know the cause, why thus  
This lean starved Heluo snatched our joy from us.   

Could sacred Piety, 
The muse's message and complaint to Death, lamenting the death of this worthy  that adorned his mind,  
The grace of heart and life, no pity find?  
Wilt thou thus wrong (oh death) the public weal?  
And justice slay, extinguish fervent zeal!  
Pull down the temple's pillar, quench the fire  
That Heaven's sent, and did to Heaven aspire?   

Could neither faith nor faithfulness find grace?  
Nor friendly love keep off thy sergeants Mace?  
Could not integrity and truth him save  
(With Hezekiah) from the greedy grave?  
O Sun return, yet shine on zions hill,  
On Ahaz Dial keep the shadow still.   

Why fell he not upon Elisha's hearse,  
That could the dead again to life reverse?  
Where is He now that Lazarus did raise?  
Where is the widow of Sarepta's praise,  
That might in flaming Chariot let him ride  
With him to heaven? then he had not dy'd.   

Shall I not once within this vale of tears?  
(Or shall I hold my peace, not speak my fears?)  
Shall I not once again on earth behold  
That countenance so grave, so brave, so bold,  
Which with a look could daunt the face of sin,  
And make offence to hide itself with in?   

shall I not see his presence? bless the walls,  
Wherein did sound his frequent sacred calls,  
Of wife and children, and of all the rest,  
To wait on God; who is for ever blessed,  
And beams of blessing from this Sunt' expect  
That blessed these blessings, might on him reflect.   

And as the Rivers to the Ocean pay  
Their tribute streams, that in their channel play;  
So daily Prayer answerers reascend  
In praises might to God, and never end:  
O never end your prayers and praises due,  
To him that gave such sweet returns to you.   

That you should pray, and yet still praise his name,  
And walk in right before him without blame;  
So did he walk, and so attended went  
With all his train: and in the Temple spent  
Both hours and days, and of all days the best,  
Wherein both Christ did rise, and God did rest.   

The time though divers, yet the precept's one,  
Writ and ingraved by God's own hand in stone,  
In midst of that his everlasting Law,  
Which might at all time keep in dreadful awe  
All hearts, and all induce, his voice with fear,  
And faithful care, and conscience to hear.   

Oh! shall I never more observe that eye,  
Intently lifted up unto the sky?  
And hands stretched out unto the throne of grace,  
And bended knees to fall before the place,  
Where shadowing Cherub covered with his wing,  
The Mercy-seat of heavens mighty King?   

From Golden Altar did the incense fly  
In clouds of smoke, and mounted up on high:  
God smelled the savour, in his heart he said,  
Behold, it's done according as thou prayed.  
And now O death, can thee no prayer melt,  
Wherein the highest God such sweetness smelled?   

Release thy Prisoner, and set ope thy gate,  
Break off those fetters, free thyself from hate,  
And let him rise from off that fatal bed  
Whereon thou forced him to lay down his head:  
Unto the votes of high and low restore  
Their joy, to be enjoyed as before.   

What ailest thou, 
death's answer● to the Muse.  O Muse, bereft of mind?  
What mean these words, these empty puffes of wind?  
wil't change the Fates, and burn the sacred roll  
Of God's Decree, and make thyself a scroll;  
There to design each one to death or life,  
And heaven and earth to set at dismal strife?   

Shall brazen mountains with a blast remove?  
Or shall the Sun run retrograde above?  
Shall morning ope her purple door i'th' West?  
And Moon and Stars to rule the day be pressed?  
And night shine forth with Phoebus' orient beams?  
And at thy will all rivers change their streams?   

Then my Commission I to thee will give,  
The living shall not die, the dead shall live;  
And mortals all, immortal shall become,  
And withered branch, with winter blast shall bloom;  
And Adam shall with Eve to Eden go,  
No fruit shall kill, no friend shall be a foe.   

But if that Adam must no more return,  
Why should I break up Barnardistons' urn?  
His faith? so Abraham died, yet did believe;  
But Truth did Hezekiah once reprieve,  
And Lazarus did life again inspire,  
And to his body did the soul retire:   

But know'st thou not how these of death did taste?  
And back again unto my Palace haste?  
Nor Abraham's faith, nor Isaac's, Jacob's fear  
Could shield them from deaths deadly piercing spear;  
So Joseph, Joshua, and Josiah all,  
By sooner, later strokes of death did fall.   

And Job was patient under death's sad blow,  
And mighty Samson unto death did bow;  
And David with his Worthies all did yield  
To death, against his stroke they found no shield;  
And John, Christ's bosom friend, did hither high,  
And Christ himself, the Son of God, did die;   

Eliah left his Mantle him behind,  
They sought him, but in no place could him find,  
His change like death; and Enoch he is not,  
Nor Rachel's children, Death became their Lot.  
And thou (O Muse) shall be as one of these,  
When Atropos thy thread to cut shall please.   

O cruel Death! 
The muse's reply to death.  can nothing then assuage  
Thy savage fury, and thy direful rage?  
Must all (O Charon) thee thy ferriage pay?  
And all take Boat, and all have over-lay?  
Then come, and to our Lazarus let us go,  
And as he died, with him, let us do so.   

As Joseph went unto old Jacob's grave,  
So shall this Saint, of us attendance have.  
What mean'st (O Muse) and whither dost thou wend? 
The angel's message to the Muse.   
When of thy passion wilt thou make an end?  
Wilt thou presume on Zion Mount to stand,  
And heaven's sceptre sway in thy right hand?   

The Lord by power and providence divine,  
Did all unto their place and end assign:  
The Earth to Plants, in Seas the Fishes swim,  
The Birds in th' air do wave their feathers trim;  
Shall not the fixed Stars in heaven shine?  
What God doth own, wilt thou detain as thine?   

And why among the dead dost thou inquire  
For these that live? 
A description of Heaven.  lift up thy eye, look higher,  
There is a place beyond that mount most bright,  
Whence Phoebus' chariot shines with flaming light;  
The stately City new Jerusalem,  
Wherein doth dwell Jehovah, God of Shem.   

Her glory doth as Jasper stone appear,  
Her light like to transparent crystal clear;  
Her battlements are high, her streets are gold,  
Her gates twelve glittering Pearls, their price untold,  
Twelve holy Angels at the gate attend,  
Whereon twelve names of Israel's tribes are penned.   

The gates, all nightless day, stand open wide,  
That Saints in golden chariots in may ride.  
Three where the Sun doth shed his orient beam,  
Three open where he doth lose his fiery team,  
Three from the North receive Christ's holy train,  
Three from the South that Saints do entertain.   

The twelve foundations, each a precious stone,  
The Jasper, Saphir, and the Chalcedon,  
The Sardonix of colour red and white,  
The Sardius next, and golden Chrysolite,  
The sea-green Beril, and the Topaz rare,  
Chrysoprasus as gold with green most fair;   

The Jacynth then, and next to that is set  
The Amethyst like purple violet,  
In those the names of Christ's, Apostles are,  
That through the world the Gospel spread so far.  
On those an hundred forty cubits' height▪  
And four, the wall so broad, of Jasper bright.   

Four square the City, and the measured ground  
With golden read a thousand furlongs found;  
The Angel so the length and breadth did take,  
The height the same no Cannon great can shake  
The wall, that doth this City compass in,  
Where none can enter, nor abide with sin.   

No need of Temple, Sun, 
The Saints glory and happiness, and this Saint among them.  or Moon there is,  
Where dwells that Trine in one, in endless bliss,  
The Lamb his everlasting light doth give  
Unto it, there the Saints in glory lives  
Upon their heads, they Crowns of glory wear,  
Their faces like the radiant Sun appear.   

They clothed are in linen sins and pure,  
No Fuller ever made the like, 'tis sure:  
And Palms of victory in their hands they have,  
Triumphant Trophies, on the wall most brave  
Do hang the Monuments of conquered hell,  
With all the Fiends and Furies, there that dwell;   

Their Crowns and Palms before the Lamb they cast,  
By whom the danger of the war they past;  
They all bedight with glory, round about  
The lamb do follow, going in and out,  
Unto the tree of lasting life they haste,  
In midst of Eden, and the fruit they taste.   

Thence to the well of Life they take their way,  
Whence living streams do never cease to play;  
With Mannah eke, and sweetest Nectar fed,  
They, by the Lamb, into the Palace led;  
The Song of Moses and the Lamb do sing,  
With sweetest harmony to heaven's King.   

In close hereof came Barnardiston in,  
Who late the field from virtue's foe did win:  
A troop of Angels blessed had been his guard,  
Into the Palace, to a place prepared:   

Wherein the emerald of virld hue,  
For beauty's honour strives with Saphir blew:  
And Topaz seeks to have away the fame  
From Carbuncle, that shines with fiery flame.   

There he arrayed in the robes of glory,  
Had to the presence Chamber, tells the story,  
How he in fight with Sin and Death had stood,  
And overcame them by the Lamb, Christ's blood:  
The Lamb my Captain was, I won the field,  
Lo there his Word my Sword, his faith my shield.   

The Angels than did all their Trumpets blow,  
The Victor's blessed welcome there to show;  
The Lord commands a crown of golden bays,  
Upon his head are set the victor's praise.  
The Saints afresh renew their happy joy,  
Them neither sin nor sorrow doth annoy.   

Moses and Aaron, sang the same that was  
By Israel sung, when they the Sea did pass;  
And Miriam did on sounding Timbrel play,  
And David tuned to his Harp a Lay:  
The rest took hands, and danced a sacred round,  
The vaults of glory echoing did sound,   

There did I leave him, there in bliss he lives,  
With him, to Saints that grace and glory gives.  
Go haste, and tell all those that did him love,  
How he sits on a golden Throne above;  
On earth he in his hand a sword did bear,  
His hand in heaven doth a sceptre rear:   

There shall he always live, and never die,  
And there shall wait on highest Majesty;  
And wait to see his Wife and Children dear  
Increase his joy, in this his glory's sphere.  
The Lord we pray, there grant to them a place,  
With their allies, and to their budding race.   

In eundem carmen funebre, comprehensum  
In Dialogo inter Musam & Vitam.   

Tene quid abripiet nobis? 
M.  (mors improba!) mortem  
Tuque premes, victam tu perimesque necem.  
Vita fugis mortem? meditaris morte fugamne?  
Vivas, ut mortem morte fugare queas.   

Dum vixi, 
V.  vitam viveham, ut perdere possem:  
Dum morior mihimet, reddita vita mihi.   
Christopher. Burrell. Rec. Wratten Mag.   

An elegy upon the death of that truly noble Gentleman, famous for Piety and Religion, the right worshipful Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston, Aug. 25. 1653.  
THou stately Top-bough of a noble Stem,  
One of God's Jewels, and thy Country's Gem,  
That helped to bless the Land wherein thou wast  
Lately a Saint: but now those joys are past;  
And we in sorrows left, with hearts most sad,  
To think we've lost that bliss we lately had  
In thee (Great Sir:) alas, we're now without  
A thousand comforts, that from thee dealt out  
But lately were, to us, and to all men,  
With whom thou hadst to do; how shall my Pen  
Be able to set out to th' world that worth,  
That was in thee? or who can warble forth  
Thy praises due? or to the life, let's see,  
What by thy death we 'ave lost, in losing thee?  
What rarest orator, or Poet can  
Set forth the use, or loss of such a man?  
Thou blessed Soul; the Model of perfection,  
Guilelesse Nathaniel, winner of affection:  
Beloved of God and Man; why didst thou die,  
And leave thy friends nought but an elegy▪  
couldst thou but hear our plaints, but hear our groans,  
But see our mournful tears, and know what moans  
Are uttered here, sighed, shed, and made for thee,  
Th' ouldest pity all, if thy felicity  
Could give thee leave, but in that place thou art,  
Where sorrow's shadow cannot reach thy heart;  
Where thou hast good of all sorts, plenteous store,  
And joy at God's right hand for evermore.  
There rest (blessed Saint) thy soul in heavens high story,  
Until the dust th''ve left shall rise to glory.  
But shall I thus have done? how can it be?  
To leave already such a Saint as he;  
To say no more of such a Son of Grace  
Then hath been said of him, were to dispraise  
Him; so shall I, when I have spent my store,  
what I can say, will be too ●●at, too poor:  
Could I but chant out now, such notes as he  
Doth in Heavens Quite, before the blessed three;  
I'd tell his praises, i'd declare his fame  
To after Ages, i'd make known his name;  
An uncorrupted Patron that did hate  
Out of the Churches means, t' augment his state  
He looked upon it as abhorred thrift,  
To gain t' himself a farthing by the gift  
Of any Benefice, though he had those,  
Which if that others had such to dispose,  
They would have wormed and screwed out two or three  
Hundreds of pounds, and yet have faeid how free  
Have I been to my Clerk? I did present  
Him to some hundred pounds: but yet in Cent'  
Got fifty to himself; God never mean  
It should be so, which thing this Saint knew well,  
And loathed such baseness as he loathed hell.  
He was a Benefactor to our Tribe,  
We freely had his bones, he scorned our bribe.  
If he were now, whence once he was ejected,  
(To hear Petitions from the ill-affected,  
Begging of men in power to haste, and ply  
The begg'ring of the godly Ministry,  
By stripping them of means, and maintenance,  
And 'th other honour due; good countenance,  
That God allows them, and hath given command,  
That no man openly, or underhand  
Should rob them of it, or withhold their due)  
He would have hated to have proved untrue  
To truth, or them; loathing ill-gotten pelf,  
And would have kept them up; or fallen himself.  
And not by seeking theirs have ruined those,  
God's faithful servants, which himself hath chose,  
Gifted, and sent dispensers of his mind  
To them that sat i'th' dark with eyes-ful blind;  
And God hath blessed their pains; maugre her's spite,  
And brought them out of darkness into light;  
Yea to their calling God hath set his seal,  
Their people their Epistle are, and weal  
Of many Souls, through grace, effected by  
Their faithful Labours in their Ministry.  
I trust our Worthies now in power will stand  
Strong for the Truth, and Gospel in the Land,  
preached and professed, and maugre all our scorners,  
Preserve us, that we fly not into corners,  
where pining souls their teacher's cann●● see,  
So starve and die through Romish policy.  
Those that have gotten any Gospel good  
From Preachers lips, must love them; though none stood  
For them, and their encouragement, but they  
Will choose to die before they'll e'er give way  
To throw them down, and Heachenize the Nation,  
Knowing 'twill prove Religions extirpation.  
They'll lend no ear in this corrupted time,  
To them wh'ould make the Word a cover-crime.  
But whither runs my pen? my Muse return,  
And fall again to mourning o'er the urn  
Of this deceased Saint, whose loss is such,  
Thousands we might have lost, yet not so much  
As we have lost in thee, blessed soul, on ground  
Say, where is such another to be found?  
Where's such an Husband? Father? Friend? or Brother?  
A word of comfort; say, where's such another  
Patron? a Saint so good? just? meek? so kind?  
So self-denying? such an heavenly mind?  
His husbanding his time, so godly spent,  
Told me h' was bound for heaven before he went.  
Since he's commenced above, and got his grace,  
We cannot leave him in a better place.  
Yet one word more give leave for, ere I 'ave done,  
Much honoured Lady, you his eldest son;  
ye children all, who put to't, would much rather,  
Have chose the loss of all, then of your Father.  
Let sorrows surges sink, let comfort come,  
And joy your sad and heavy hearts; make room  
For gladness, know ye 'ave mourned your shares,  
Your dear is gone to glory, stay your tears.  
Ye see what God hath done, and who may have  
Like liberty to take, as he that gave?  
Submit to God, bear Christianly this cross,  
He can restore you manifold your loss.  
Madam, take comfort, and trust God to be  
A better Husband to you far, than He,  
And to your virtuous Daughters, widows left,  
Both, like yourself, of Husbands late bereft;  
Not only Husband, but of Father too,  
To you and yours, thus doth the Promise go.  
Worthy Sir Thomas, now, great God expects  
In you such graces, from you such effects,  
As in, and from your blessed Father were,  
Take care, herein you truly prove his heir;  
My prayers for ye all shall be this rather,  
God make ye better, than your Gracious Father.  Loquitur post funera virtus. 
Ro. Cook.   

An elegy on that eminently religious Knight, Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston.  
STay (Reader) stay, stand, but a while, and see  
The dismal face of this sad obsequy  
Where all are Mourners, where you'd think you spy  
A Son or Daughters tear in every eye.  
Hark, Reader, hast thou ever seen what Grace,  
What Majesty was seated in his face?  
Then bow before his shrouded head, and know  
What honours due, where age white hairs did snow;  
Where virtue, where a noble mind did dwell,  
Which nothing can (beside its self) excel.  
Democritus himself, should he but know  
What caused these tides of tears to over●flow,  
The waterish humour in his eye (I fear)  
Would melt the Chrystaline into a tear.  
Reader, first pay a tear, and then pass on,  
'Tis no dry subject we are now upon:  
But hold, God too will have his harvest free  
From rainy showers of tears, as well as we:  
This full-eared Wheat of his, first bowed its head,  
So gathered was to's Garner with the dead.  

Apostrophe ad defunctum:  
Blessed Shade, your pardon, that thus late my verse,  
In black and white attends your sacred hearse;  
My Muse was fondly loath, I must confess,  
To mix with sables in an English dress;  
Thought that too homely, wanton; did desire  
A persic, Syriak, Arabic attire,  
Or any more exotic; Parrots seek  
A Caesar's favour in no less than Greek:  
Pardon her soft-paced measures, her delays,  
She in sad broken Accents sighing says:  
Should sundry Tongues, each with a diverse tone  
Lament our loss, all must consent in one.   

Write on the weeping Marble, here doth lie,  
Maecenas, and the muse's Deity.   
Sic flevit, Gulielm. Stephenson.   

Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston, his Hallelujah,  Saint. 

THrice holy Lord, at thy right hand I see  
The Incense pillars up ascending be  
From thy most precious blood, on which doth lie  
The Roose, and hang the Pavement of this high  
And glorious Court, by them brought up I stand  
Before thy face, expecting thy command.   Almighty. 

Drop of myself, eternally my Dear,  
(Distance away) draw to this bosom near;  
Lo here, thy elder Brother, didst not long  
To see thy Jesus? seest thou not the throng  
Of crowned Saints about thee, that rejoice  
To join thee to their Chore, who with their voice,  
My everlasting praise do sing? this sphere  
Of Ravishment, that doth thee circle here▪  
The native heat is of thy father's breast,  
From whence when first thou sparkledest I thee blessed,  
With my unknown delight, and love; to me,  
Thou art not strange, but from eternity  
Thou always present wert▪ behold thy name  
Deeply in-laid upon the Covenant frame  
Of my Free Grace, that Archive Archy-type▪  
And Index of this Court, the first grand Pipe,  
Conveying down my love unto my Son,  
Through him, and all his Gospel veins, to run  
Into th' elect, those gulfs of love; find'st not  
My half believed Gospel true? thy Lot▪  
Does it not fill thy heart, fulfil my Oath?  
Do I delude the sons of men, when loath  
To mind or love me, I them woo, and pray  
To deign acceptance of me, that they may  
Be well, and pleased here? do I deserve  
That slight and scorn, that dust and ashes serve  
Me daily with? the Leprous scales of sin,  
Have they more weight of joy than what's within  
The spangles of thy Crown? which of the two,  
The lower wilderness of thorns and woe,  
Or this eternal gallery of love  
Wouldst choose thy walk? these prospects here above,  
And not Lusts snaky Groves true pleasure yields:  
Earths sence-inspiring glances in May-fields  
Cause but an ulcerous itch; those leaps of spirit  
Men think they feel in earthly love's delight,  
Are here indeed the souls eternal dance,  
raised by the dartings of my countenance;  
Look and be ravished, spring, and sing my Dove,  
Tuning thy measures to my eye of love.   Saint. 

How near's this Chore? how Faint's this echo here?  
Is this th' almighty's praise that now I hear?  
Can the thousand thousands raise no higher?  
Jehovah, thy acceptance I admire:  
Is all the powers of Saints and Angels joined  
Beneath thy love, and glory thus confined?  
(O love thyself, my God) were this a place,  
Tears should reflect thy beams upon my face:  
Canst thou not make a Temple higher roofed,  
wherein on louder Organs may be proved  
The Art of treble-voiced Seraphims,  
Joined with deep Accent of winged Cherubims?  
But neither I, nor these, alas can raise  
Aught else but love; Lord reckon that thy praise.  
And I am glad thou'rt great beyond our songs,  
Because we feel thee good, beyond our Tongues,  
And since thou smilest to hear thy Nurc'ry sing,  
In broken Notes, their father's name, I'll bring  
My Jews-Trump to thy set: Chore let us join:   Saint and Chore. 

All might and power, transcendent Lord, is thine,  
Above thy Creatures thoughts, thy glory is:  
Their utmost stretch, can give to thee no bliss,  
Yet 'tis their joy, and everlasting gain,  
That they to sing thy praise, their spirits strain.  
Thou canst have but their all, their all they spend  
Upon thy Throne, yet neither waste or end.  
O blessed be thou, thou self-arisen Sun  
Of Light and Love; from whence hath ever run  
Beams both of Life and good, thickening to Globes  
And Worlds: This Heaven of Saints is but the Robes  
Of rays about thee; thou Eternal Spring  
(In which th'rising streams, most sweetly sing)  
Of Life and Love, and Joy, of Good and Right;  
From whence we flow, and whither thou invite  
Thy Channels to return; there are we well,  
And not to be in thee, is lowest Hell.  
All might of love be to thy Spirit given,  
Who lest we should by Hellish winds be driven  
Into the gulf of woe, didst with us mix,  
And ran along our wavering course, to fix  
On thee Life's Ocean. Fruits of that love  
Now in our centre we do taste and prove.  
Our life is thine, O lovely God and Man,  
The wonder of thy death, who of us can  
Half comprehend, much less repay. But see  
The goodly offspring of thy Blood, and be  
self-satisfied, while we behold thy Face  
Filled with delight, rejoice thou in the Grace  
Thy Blood hath sprinkled round about thy Throne,  
Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Three in One.   

His Character.  
Most perfect Image of the God above,  
Without was Majesty, within was love:  
One drawn with sweetness by an infant's hand,  
Ne'er driven by violence, or Base command:  
Religion's Patron, Crown of Piety  
Upon his Houses Ancient chivalry.  
To Lawful Senates, was his countries choice,  
The last dissolved, above he gives his voice.  
To a wise and beauteous Lady joined,  
Into a generous offspring Both are twined.  
He went not hence, till he might clearly see  
Himself in's Heir, should much exalted be.   

His Votaries Prayer.  
O let no Curse, no Sin, no Fate, no War,  
His long-lined house, e'er blot, defame, or scar.  
But let its numerous seed, still run along,  
Till it receive Christ's coming, with a Song.  
The gentry's virtues, Glories let it wear;  
But all its Vices, let it scorn to bear.  
His House a School of worth, let ages see;  
And Lord, a Church of Graces, let it be.   
Richard Fairclough Rector of Mells in Sommersetshire.   

To the Memory of that Highly Noble, and Religious Knight Sir NATH. BARNARDISTON.  
PArdon great Sir, though others to your Tomb,  
Bring Volumes of your praise, and I be dumb.  
A Verse or two is all I can; not want  
Of sorrow, but the greatness makes me scant.  
I cannot write, Tears make my Paper sink;  
My Pen weeps too, its proper tears of Ink.  
These, whilst I strive to chequer my white sheet,  
Correct my Error, and tell me 'tis meet  
That all be black, that every part should mourn,  
And so my sheet into a pall they turn.  
How can I make a Verse, who want my Feet?  
Rooted I stand, amazed at the great,  
And strangeness of our loss, sad Niobs' fate  
Transformed to stone, is mine, incorporate  
I to a quarry am; Then take from me  
His Monument, his Grave-stone I will be;  
And so for ever, I upon my breast  
Shall wear this Epitaph, and weep the rest.  

Epitaph.  
Here lies those Sacred Ashes, once the seat  
Of heau'n-born-fires, and Loves diviner heat.  
No Basket-Justice, or bribed Committee,  
No purged Senator, but all Purity.  
In's Consort happy, both in offspring crowned:  
Birth made him noble, Piety renowned.   

Anagram. Nathaniel Barnardiston. Born in an All-sainted Hart.  

How well All Saints, give honour to his Urn,  
Whose Faith was in An heart All-sainted Born.   

The World's unworthy of him, whose best part,  
lived, and was Born in an All-Sainted Hart.   
Nathaniel Fairclough Rector of Stalbridge in Dorcetshire.    

PARENTALE, or an elegy on the Highly honourable and Right Worshipful Sir Nath. Barnardiston, Kt.  
BY Euphrat's flood, when Captive Israel sat,  
Increasing it; their Harps inanimate  
Hung speechless by: All sorrows want their Tongues,  
These Organs speak not, filled from sighing Lungs.  
Great anger makes a Poet; but the sense  
Of greatest grief, stops flowing eloquence:  
Who groans in tune, hath learned the Hebrew art  
To weep with th' eye; but bleed not at the heart.  
My theme's too great, that Pegasus should wear  
Such straightening Fetters; he can't mount the air,  
Or soar aloft, whilst pinioned is his Wing.  
England lies here; your boundless tears then bring,  
And Mote it round; let every weeping eye  
Now pay its River, till the Springs be dry;  
Then offer them: Galatian tribute here  
Is due, he pays an eye, that hath no tear.  
The Academy, Country, Church, at once,  
Have lost their chiefest Patron, and thus groans.  
Erst while I saw a Spring ('twas Hippocrene)  
Brimed round about with Sable Jet, within  
The waters swelled; and past their common bounds:  
straight I drew near, t'observe, and search the grounds  
Of this late flood; and silently I spied  
The Orphan Muses by; all sadly cried:  
And as they wept, the dewy tears that fell,  
Slid to that watery lodge, which made it swell;  
Their patron's death (Apollo) caused this woe,  
Which falling beads now tell; a wrinkled O  
From every fall, their griefs in water wrote,  
And spoke the sadness of their sighing note.  
The common people next, dismayed with fears,  
Dewing their Bosoms; thus fills all our ears.  
Swift Time (Heavens pursuivant) straightly summons  
To th' Lord's House, this Member of the Commons;  
Thrice chosen Senator, let Ipswitch fame  
How oft her streets have echoed with his Name;  
But cruel dint of death's severer Dart  
Suffolk's great Soul, from Suffolk now doth part.  
Nor mourns the State alone; the church's chime;  
Religion sighs; her trickling tears keeps time  
Whilst sobbing thus, she sings, Here lies the Knight,  
Lifeless, that did maintain the gospel's Light.  
Let Ketton boast; how from her sacred Hill,  
Her Sun with brightest rays, the World doth fill;  
Here fixed by him: O joyful, Heavenly meet  
Of thousands, Sainted by his means; that greet  
His crowned head, whose Crown they are, then haste  
We too, to add more gems, and be so placed.  
SA. Faireclough. Fel. of Gon. and Caius Coll.   

An elegy on that ever honoured Knight, Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston.  
NOt for to scrape acquaintance with the great,  
Much less, like some, to get a good meals meat;  
Not that my stranger Muse strives to be known,  
As if she thought sh' were else as good be none:  
A mourning ribbon, or a parie of Gloves,  
Can nothing tempt her from that rest she loves?  
My Muse is no such hackney, none of these  
Can draw her from her now accustomed ease;  
Nor doth she now (as erst) catch after wit,  
And haply sometimes had the praise of it.  
In part, She minds herself, now called away,  
From lighter studies, to a graver way;  
In part, she thinks 'mongst Country Clowns to rise  
In strains of wit, were but to solaecise.  
Partly her will's in fault, and may be too,  
Though she were ne'er so willing, 'twould not do.  
Chiefly, my Muse puts on so grave a dress,  
Because th' occasion calls for seriousness.  
And now she speaks, she doth not mean to raise  
A trophy to his name from's father's praise:  
Though here (if Ancestry must have a place)  
She knows no ancienter, no nobler race.  
Those who have nought to brag of, but the glory  
Of their forefathers, blot their father's story.  
I'd put the Ape, and such men both together,  
That could be proud of borrowed peacock's feather.  
But here no sluggishness did make a seat  
Of grandsire's glory, there to sit complete;  
But he made what he found left by his Sire  
But as his footstool, that should raise him higher.  
And as the circled glass contracts the flames,  
That noon-tide Sun did scatter with his beams,  
And makes them like meridian lines, at last  
To meet in one point, as from one they passed:  
So here those nobler flames that were compressed,  
Some here in one, some in another's breast,  
Of all those famous Barm'stons, once alive  
Met here, in this conjunction cop' lative.  
So that to raise a trophy to his fame,  
From those same virtues that have run i'th' name,  
And hence to fetch one stone, and thence another,  
To catch at this in that man, that in tother;  
This were to go about, as he should stray  
From hence to London, should take York in's way.  
we'll make a shorter cut of it by far,  
While he alone both compass is, and star;  
And though our Logick-mongers teach for truth,  
That accidents must never dare (forsooth)  
To change their soil (but like some fettered ass,  
enclosed in walls, must always feed on grass;  
Or as we read it was with Shimei)  
But stir from subjects once, they needs must die.  
Yet here we find those virtues all do dwell,  
In which each Sire of his did most excel;  
And having lest their former soil, yet more  
Did thrive in him, than e'er they did before.  
So well, (though logic scoff) without correction,  
Divinity maintains her resurrection,  
In short, his Father gave him life and breath,  
But he (O Miracle) even after Death.  
Revives his father's Fathers, makes them be  
(Being long since dead) fresh in our memory.  
Yea, he survives himself, and cannot die,  
Until the ending of eternity.  
But mind thyself, my Muse, remember how  
Thy calling makes all other things to bow  
To one, (Religion) leave all other then,  
And make this one, the subject of thy Pen.  
Nor needest thou here put on Creative power,  
As Poets sometimes do; who in one hour  
Create him Saint, being dead, who all men know  
A walking devil was, when here below:  
None need to stretch his conscience, here to tell  
Officious lies for one, that burns in hell;  
To draw belief to't, by his forged story,  
That, that damned caitiff, is a Saint in glory;  
And thereby make even boys and Girls to point,  
And say, The Preachers conscience's out of joint.  
No, speak he most▪ then can; there is no fear▪  
It should offend the tend'redst conscienc'd ear.  
No new truths can be preached, but what are known,  
No better by the Preacher, than the Town.  
All men that knew him, by his life might know,  
He was not only great, but godly too:  
Nor was his saintship of that new Edition,  
Which Sequestrations make, or a Commission:  
Gain brought him not to Piety. To rise  
From sin to grace, he ne'er learned by th' Excise.  
Nor did he (Proteus like) to all men's view,  
Change his religions face, still for a new,  
As th' old grew out of credit; he ne'er made▪  
Religions change to be his gainful trade.  
'Twas Conscience made him Pious, no design  
To rob thee (gasping Church) of what was thine.  
He deemed that which the new Saints of our Age,  
Count a main piece of Piety, sacrilege.  
But peace my Muse; thou'dst fame to th'later times,  
And clothe this hero's actions in thy rhimes;  
Thou longest to bring partic'lars on the stage,  
And wouldst; but that the growing Peers o'th' age  
Being set o'th' counter part, would surely raise  
Thine Elegiake strains, to satire lays,  
And make them speak so loud, that without doubt,  
They'd doom thee to't, to have thy tongue cut out.  
I think it therefore, far the safer way,  
Thou prate no more, but that thou rather pray,  
Many such Barnardistons' God would send,  
Th'unhappiness of Church and State to 'mend.  
Samuel Reyner, Thirloe Mag.   

An Elegy at the Funeral of that truly Honorrable, and most Religious Knight, the Right Worshipful Sir NATH. BARNARDISTON.  

WHat Marble now is dry? then shall not we  
Our tears pour forth, at this solemnity?  
In ancient time the men of Carthage Town,  
Upon Masistius death, their Towers broke down;  
Their Walls they hung with blacks, and Towers torn,  
That so not only men, but stones might mourn.   

The Rock itself, when Moses smote did spring;  
Streams Crystalline the fiery Flint did bring.  
Much more should we, now God himself doth smite,  
Send forth our streaming tears; for these of right  
Are due; if we deny this tribute, than  
The stones that now shed tears, will shame us men.   

When Pompey by Septimius was slain,  
The valiant Julius Caesar did disdain  
To view his head; when to him it was sent,  
His Kingly heart, with pity did relent;  
His Cheeks bedewed with tears, his clemency  
Did manifest even to his enemy.   

If Julius Caesar wept thus for a fo,  
Then for a friend, much more should we do so.  
For such a friend, whom all men may of right,  
Most truly term, The High God's favourite.  
His dearest darling, and all men's delight.  
Who whilst he lived with us, out-shined in grace  
The rest of men, now sees God face to face:  
When that the Emperor Titus did depart:  
What cloudy looks, moist cheeks, and heavy heart,  
Might be beheld all o'er the Roman State,  
Each single man bemoaning his sad fate:  
And thus concerning him, they did complain,  
Titus is gone, t'our loss, though to his gain.  
The same may we take up; God's darling's gone.  
'Tis for his good, though our affliction.  
Well mourn we may, as in some silent grove,  
Whilst he in heavenly joys, triumphs above.   

Nathaniel he was, God's gift to us;  
A Gem, a precious Pearl esteemed, and thus  
The greater was our joy; but now deceased,  
The more our grief, and sorrows are increased.  
It seems God gives and takes, who can gainsay?  
God saith, Give me my gem, who shall say nay?  
Who shall resist his will? Lord take thine own,  
But give us leave, our loss for to bemoan.   

A custom 'twas of old, that men renowned,  
Not only living, but when dead, were crowned.  
Marcellus once this honour did receive,  
The same the Emperor Augustus gave  
To Alexander's Tomb: Demetrius  
His Urn (when he was dead) was crowned thus.   

Not any man more worthy of this Bay,  
Then he for whom we celebrate this day.  
A King he lived, most worthy to be crowned,  
In whom so many graces did abound.  
A King he died, death's Victor now sits down  
In Heaven resplendent, with a glorious crown,  
When Death uncased his Soul, it to Heaven tended,  
And by his declination he ascended.   

How now grim Death, whence cometh thus thy rage?  
What, couldst find none but th'Phoenix of our age,  
To exercise thy cruelty upon?  
No twinkling Star, none serve thee but the Sun,  
Thus to eclipse? How dost thou think shall we  
Deport ourselves, when we no Sun can see?  
Whence this thy hate to break our Rule and Line,  
To take our Pattern from's that was Divine?  
Hadst thou no white, but innocency's heart,  
Whereat to level this thy forked dart?  
O 'tis not he, but we that feel the smart.  
Lo here a Spectacle we see,  
To teach us all, what we must be.  
Wouldst know thy metal? then look on  
The Mould and Earth, thou treadest upon.  
Look here proud man, behold thy Mother,  
For at the first, thou hadst no other:  
She brought thee forth, thou art her son,  
Flesh of her flesh, bone of her bone.   

Thou must repay again, what she hath lent thee,  
Thy flesh thy bone, and what e'er else she sent thee.   
Tho. Marriot. M. A.   

On the Death of that Noble Patriot of his Country Sir Nath. Barnardiston.  
I Heard that many Poets went of late  
In a full throng to knock at heaven's gate,  
Humbly beseeching Jove of his quick brain,  
(From whence Minerva, without mother's pain,  
Or midwife's help, a witty Dame did flow)  
Some few small Particles on them bestow;  
And highly their immortal souls inspire,  
With a divine and active nimble fire;  
That they might fancies, quick, and high conceive,  
And might even Virgil of his bays bereave.  
'Twas granted; then in haste to Helicon,  
With fury rapt beyond themselves they run,  
And for their guide, among the nine they choose,  
A sullen, melancholy, pensive Muse,  
To show that bitter stream of Pegasus,  
That prompted Naso with De Tristibus:  
Of this they largely drinking to their fill,  
Did into far more bitter tears distil,  
Sounding aloud, in hideous lamentation,  
As when Plague, Sword, and Famine fright a Nation.  
I wondering, curiously the cause desired,  
Which so much wit, and so much grief required;  
'Twas answered in a sad, and doleful voice,  
By one whose sorrows did surmount his noise.  
Alas! of all good men (of such though blessed,  
The Catalogue's but short) we 'ave lost the best;  
Prince in his Tribe, his country's Patriot,  
By election made, not undiscerning Lot;  
A just, wise, honest, noble Senator,  
Lover of Peace, contention's Arbiter,  
Patron of Learning, Poverties relief,  
The angel's joy, and ease unto friend's grief.  
Farewell, brave Soul, whom now the Saints do greet,  
In all things high, but in thine own conceit.  
These great Elog'ums did me little move,  
(A stranger to his person, and his love:)  
Beside, I knew that Poets, some for gain,  
Many for fear, and more for hunger, strain  
The music of their pliant, giddy passion,  
To any humour of Maecenas fashion;  
Yet some impression I must needs admit,  
Seeing whole Families, and hamlets sit  
Like Israel by Euphrate discontent,  
As if his absence were their banishment.  
I therefore did unto the funeral show,  
If not a Party, yet Spectator go;  
There was the much lamented hearse let down,  
In hope of resurrection to a crown;  
In silent vault confined with worms, and dust,  
Where marble must consume, and iron rust;  
Whence we expect a glorious release,  
For th' seeds corruption tendeth to increase.  
But when I saw the mournful Dowager,  
Like Mary Magdalen by th' sepulchre,  
Fixing her eyes upon the greedy grave,  
Which human flesh unsatisfied doth crave;  
As if in that cold bed she'd rather lie,  
Then part with her old loving company.  
When Children, Nephews, Kinsmen there stood dumb,  
Like Images, to deck the dead knight's Tomb;  
I could not then refrain, but these tears lent,  
As drops to th' Sea, their sorrow to augment.  
Sure he was very good, who when life failed,  
Left so much wealth behind, and's yet bewailed;  
Whose heir can slightly look upon his gold,  
And wished i'th' live Testators hand untold?  
But grieve not Sirs, nor envy him, his mind,  
He's far above what he hath left behind;  
Nathaniel is not dead, but was enticed,  
To leave his figtree, for to follow Christ.  
Edmund Underwood.   

A funeral elegy on the Right worshipful Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston.  
WHen Abner died, King David then could say,  
A great man fell in Israel that day.  
But how may we lament, to see God's hand,  
Thus snatch this great and good man from our Land?  
This our right Worthy, Sir Nathaniel▪  
Who did not suffer guile in him to dwell;  
But when our giddy-headed Nation run  
After strange Meteors, he most like the Sun,  
Kept on his course in Justice, Truth, and Right,  
And shined more clearly in this sable night.  
Rend now your hearts, and be confounded all,  
That love the truth, at Barnardistons' fall;  
When such strong pillars from the Church are ta'en  
What can we judge in reason to remain,  
But desolation? yet great Jove can still  
Extract much good from greatest sense of ill.  
Near forty years hath he most glorious been,  
In strengthening virtue, and suppressing sin;  
Of all that knew him was he most renowned;  
And now by God that made him is he crowned,  
And in immortal glory shall remain,  
Until that day that all shall rise again:  
And then with Christ his Saviour shall appear,  
To judge all those that were Apostates here.  
John Soame, Gent.   

An elegy on the much lamented death of Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston.  
Were I endued with that learned skill,  
To mourn thy doleful death, with such a quill  
As might it grave in lines, as fair, as those  
Thou wrotest thy noble life in; and compose  
Each syllable by so exact a square,  
As that whereby thy actions formed were;  
Then might I such an elegy invent,  
As should thy death unto the life lament;  
Then such sad accents, such a doleful verse  
I might breathe forth, as might become the hearse  
Of a Nathaniel, and might fully tell,  
How sad's the death of one that lived so well:  
How as th' Inamorato of Sol's ray,  
The Heliotrope, which in the lightsome day  
Displays its widest beauty to his light,  
Doth closed mourn his absence in the night:  
So doth the Country, which with great desire  
Want to receive th' influence of that fire  
Of prudent Piety, which from thy breast  
Sent forth most glittering rays, but now (th' art blessed  
Elsewhere with light more glorious, and dear)  
Lament thy setting in our Haemisphear.  
But 'tis an Art my ruder Pen can't reach,  
To mourn thee as becomes; and so to teach  
Strangers to know thy pious worth, and see  
How great a joy all good men lost in thee.  
Besides, to speak so highly in thy praise,  
As thy true worth requires, may chance to raise▪  
In some men's minds mistrust of flattery,  
And thy due praise be thought hyperbole.  
But since perhaps: it might be thought a crime,  
Now to be wholly dumb, at such a time,  
When so renowned a hero calls to speak;  
Somewhat i'll say, though but in accents weak,  
And yet but little will I speak, and that  
Not in thy praise; (Reader, dost start hereat?)  
The reason's this; Not that I envy thee,  
That, which is known of all, thy due to be;  
But that thy worth far doth my Pen transcend.  
And he that poorly praise doth discommend.  
Not to disparage then thy worth in lays,  
Too mean by far for thy deserved praise:  
All that i'll say is only this, to tell,  
Thy worth needs not my praise, 'tis known so well.  
Ralph Garnons. M. A.   

On the Right Worshipful and ever honoured Knight, Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston.  
A Grave! a Funeral! my Muse, no toys  
Become this Scene, no fancies like decoys,  
To tangle Readers in a pleasing maze  
Of lofty words, wrapped in Luxuriant phrase:  
These are not seasonable, now our verse  
Can nought else speak, or think of, but a hearse.  
That Macedonian Trumpet, that did bring  
Memento mori to a mighty King,  
Instead of Ave Philip, late hath brought  
Us doleful news, a sad disastrous thought.  
Stand off, come not too near, give air, give breath,  
I faint to speak of late unwieldy death,  
Snatched not a Philip, but Nathaniel hence,  
An Israelite, that of no guile had sense,  
One whose rare piety that's much admired,  
Speak him an earthly Angel, though attired  
In Robes of Flesh; one of a higher mind,  
Then could to lower regions be confined,  
Whose heavenborn soul did still in contemplation,  
Pass o'er those heavenly joys, whose adumbration  
He fully now enjoys; those pleasing shades,  
In sweet Elysi'um, where joy never fades:  
Those Hills of Solyma, where purest streams  
Make glad the region of that Sun, whose beams  
Those healing wings, continually refresh  
The Sacred Pilgrim, when disrobed of flesh:  
There rests this holy Saint; what heretofore  
He could but see in part, and wish for more;  
H'ath now attained: O rare state of perfection,  
The end of hope, joys centre, Saints election.  
Nor did his strict religion only speak  
His Peerless worth, which we (alas) poor, weak,  
And crazy mortals, knew not how to prize:  
But he had gifts more obvious to our eyes,  
Love to his Country, whose affairs he minded  
With so great care, that none but envy-blinded  
Can cease condoling him, whose name who hears  
In future times shall steep himself in tears:  
And like sad Niob', standing o'er his Tomb,  
Shall kiss the Earth, in whose most happy Womb  
He lies enclosed; and to his sacred Urn,  
As to a Delphic Oracle shall turn.  
But stop my Muse, his V●rtues so transcend  
Thy weak expression, that perhaps i'th' end  
Thy mind may be mis-deemed, and some may raise  
An argument against thee from thy praise:  
Better forbear to speak, then speaking wrong  
The harmless dead, to whom all praise belong:  
Condole we then his loss, his virtues pass,  
Praised by themselves, engraved in firmest Brass,  
Which time shall ne'er wear out, nor malice blot,  
But Fame shall render blameless without spot.  
Yet this admit, the more his virtues shone,  
Our loss the greater, and the more our moan.  
O for a Mount of Tears to sleep upon,  
Acis or Biblis, for a Helicon:  
But wishes boot not, clear we then our eyes,  
He's singing now triumphant Elegies.  
Whilst we poor mortals grovelling here below,  
Fall short of that his praise, we fain would show.  
This only dare we own, that for his hearse,  
If fancy fail, yet grief hath made a Verse.  
Abrah. Garnons, M. A.   

The Offering of an Infant-Muse to the Memory of Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston.  
YOu Sager Heads, that do attend this hearse,  
Accept the Homage of a younglings Verse.  
Tears are griefs rhetoric, and a child though weak,  
Knows how to weep, before it learns to speak.  
I have my end, although my stile be rude;  
Who do not study wit, but gratitude.  
This Noble Gentleman, when first I came  
Into the world, bestowed on me my Name.  
Now he hath lately left the world, shall I  
Foolishly modest, suffer his to die?  
What though far abler Pens applaud him, yet  
They meant to pay their own, and not my debt.  
His prayers for, and favours to me shown,  
No other Muse proclaims besides my own,  
Which though a newborn spark, yet such a Name,  
May quickly mount it up into a flame:  
A Name wherein you nothing mean, can spy  
His Birth, Place, Person, Graces; all were high  
whilst here: But now he in those heights doth dwell,  
That nothing, but an angel's tongue can tell.  
My Infant-Muse oppressed with such bright glory,  
Leaves flaming Seraphims to write his story.  
Nath. Owen. Anno Aetat. 12o.   

Obsequies to the Memory of Sir Nath. Barnardiston, Kt.  

GIve leave (my Friends) unto this sable hearse,  
To offer up a Tributary Verse:  
Even such, as love and sorrow shall suggest:  
Sorrow ne'er made good Poet, Love the best.  
O! how much rather, if th' all-ordering hand  
Of Providence Divine (which none withstand)  
Had so disposed, I would have brought this day  
My salutary vows; but now the way  
To joy's shut up: The scene which whilom we  
Thought comic, now ends in a Tragedy.  
Where were ye Galen and Hippocrates?  
Thou Paracelsus, who didst vainly please  
Thyself, to boast with thine Elixar's art  
To make a man immortal? couldst that part  
Have acted here, or some years' lustres more,  
Have added to his lives lease? on this score,  
Like loyal Romans for Augustus, we  
A during statue to thy memory  
Would have erected; graved thy name in Brass,  
Lasting to ages glory: But (alas!)  
Nor Themison, nor Aesculapius,  
Machaon thou, nor Podalirius,  
'Mongst the Galenick Nation, though you be  
Chief Doctors, could you bring a remedy  
To supersede this fate: That hand that gave  
This wound (Achilles like) could only save:  
Then which no other weapon-salve, I know,  
Nor universal medicine here below.  
He's therefore gone, and we alive to see,  
The Monument of our mortality,  
His sacred relics; and remember what  
He was in's life, and study to be that.  
But is there any that will undertake,  
To write his copy; I fear his hand will shake,  
Or's Pensil's dull, or some fault in his eyes,  
That he'll indent deformed obliquities.  
Yet his clear eye, and steady hand ne'er drew,  
But strait lines from the centre, for he knew  
And learned from such a master, who alone  
Could guide the hand and hearts position.  
And so he guided was, that few are seen  
On this world's theatre, or erst have been  
Equal proficients with him in this art,  
This heavenly art of living well; which part  
He much adorned, and 'twas his greatest grace,  
And worths embellishment in such a place,  
As God had set him, to be good as great;  
Goodness and greatness, both well here did meet  
In him. How soon began! for in his prime  
He chose (not like luxurious youth) his time  
To spend in th'ages wanton revelings;  
But sought that merchandise, which only brings  
That great advantage (after all his care  
And travel) now possessed, without all fear  
Of losing: he by firm indenture bound  
Himself to God, not for years; for he found  
They might expire, and's Fathers legacy  
Was more than this poor world's annuity.  
Therefore in grace's tenure, humbly he  
Cast anchor unto all eternity.  
And now his turn, and weather-beaten bark  
With the world's storms and tempests, like the ark  
Puts int' a quiet harbour, even as that  
Rested upon the Mountain Ararat.  
He left this world i'th' storm by Land and Sea,  
Yet he a calm and sweet tranquillity  
Found in himself; as one that swom to Land,  
Having scaped shipwreck, doth i'th' harbour stand  
Safe and secure; yet viewing with sad eyes  
The Monuments of Neptune's cruelties:  
Or he whose ship from some far country bound,  
Laden with Gold and Spice, at length hath found  
The wished Port, prays that his Friends may see,  
The like returns advantage; so did he,  
Having received his lading home secure,  
Prays God, the States and Churches to ensure.  
But whilst we mind his gain, we value not  
Our loss, nor can: The Saints indeed have got  
One that will bear a part with them, whilst we  
Are left to sing a doleful elegy.  
To mourn, becomes us well; here needs no art  
To paint a tear, that comes not from the heart:  
Or that we hire some ancient praefica'es  
To howl their well-dissembled nanias.  
For such sad Sables (Sorrows Livery)  
Well may they hold a semblance to the eye,  
Of some thing which we see; but for the rest  
Behind the Curtain, Cannot be expressed.  
So did that Artist when he came to draw  
The parent's grief, for Iphigenia,  
Cast o'er a veil, (the rest within made good  
By an Aposiopesis understood)  
Then draw the Curtain here (my Muse) and tell,  
The World thou canst with no lines parallel,  
Their grief, whose honour 'twas once to have had,  
A Wife, or child's relation here: So sad  
Appears the Scene, There's none that bears apart  
A mourning robe, without a mourning heart.   

Yet once again (thou Cypress tree)  
Let me now pluck a branch from thee;  
Bitter constraint, and saddest woe,  
(Alas) compels me so to do.  
Thou wont'st not to receive a call  
To every vulgar funeral.  
We'll therefore not impropriate  
Thy custom, since 'tis our sad fate  
To lose a hero of that worth,  
As nature rarely bringeth forth.  
Mourn then, for on this woeful Beer  
Lies one, that hath not left his Peer.  
For whom the Heavens (as if too long,  
They had expected him among  
His Fellow Saints) at last have sent  
Now to complete their Parl'ament.   

Saxa ruunt Mausoli invisa, ruuntque Colossi  
Mole sua; & si quae porrò Monumenta vetustas  
Condidit, illa abolevit edax; vel quicquid Apelles  
Pinxerit, antony's si quid Lysippus duxerit olim,  
Apparent nusquàm (ne subsistente ruinâ.)  
At meliora tibi pietas Monumenta locavit,  
Quip fides tua clara (aevo rarissima nostro)  
Te petrae inseruit. Titulo te posse carere  
Ergone Marmoreo? licet aut componere parvis  
Maxima? Namque Choro coelesti ascriptus iniquum  
Ut remeare velis divisis mente Britannis.  
Qui tamen, (et si nos tot blandimenta nepotes  
Chara reliquisti) superes ubi nulla cupido  
Invadet redeundi, non si populusve senatus  
Antiquum ad meritumque locum revocare potesset.  
Consociare tuis, te suaviloquentior usquàm  
Nec fuerat dum tu fueras, nec amantior ullus  
Qui potuit. Quoties dextram (Venerande) benignam  
Tu mihi, quàm gratos amplexus saepe dedisti,  
Nulli ementitos? verus monitorque fidelis  
Idque frequens mihi; cultor eras quia tu neque parens  
Numinis atque alios mecum suadere solebas.  
Oh quoties & quae nobis memoranda locutus  
Digna velut clavo maneant infixa trabali?  
Nam neque tu quenquam vano sermone morari,  
Pejorem solitus coram aut demittere tristem.  
Quos vultus, quales vidi candore micantes!  
Atque oculos? mihi quos spectare (heu non licet ultra.)  
At nunquam? Oh nunquam nostras resonabit ad aures  
Vox antiqua sonos modulans mihi quàm bene notos:  
Nam mihi nunc superas heu dissociabilis; oras  
Lenta nimis vela impellent suspiria nostra  
Hasce iterum infidas, ut frustrà referre conemur.  
Ast ego quando quidem nobis te fata tulerunt,  
O quàm te memorem, & memorans suspiria ●undam,  
Dum maestus reddam solennia vota Sepulchro.   
Joh. Clopton. Gent▪   

An Epicedium upon the death of that thrice worthy Knight, Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston, eminent for Piety to God, love to the Church, and fidelity to his Country.  
IT's easy for to write an elegy  
On common fates, great sorrows stupefy;  
A toe or finger lost, we can complain,  
But wounds received in liver, heart, or brain,  
(The parts that be architectonical)  
Oppress the sense, we should complain withal.  
A cask that nought, but the light air doth hold,  
Sounds far more shrilly, than one filled with gold;  
Fleet streams are clamorous, the deepest joys  
And sorrows, their own depth do keep from noise.  
Our loss so vast, as would a country break,  
We want both help to bear, and strength to speak.  
What is't to hear a wife, or children cry,  
Should such a father, such a husband die?  
Or a few mournful scholars make this moan,  
Our-dear Maecenas, our best friend is gone;  
Th' expenses of a sorrow that's thus large,  
Should be borne out at a whole Nations charge;  
A public tax of grief, whole subsidies  
Of tears, and freely given, will scarce suffice.  
Where are you all, who while he was alive  
Owned none but him, your representative?  
Resound a Barm'stons' name, cannot that breath  
Which silenced other Rivals, silence Death?  
Shall the graves prison your free choice prevent,  
And break a privilege of Parliament?  
Tell him, he hath your suffrages, lest we  
Judge you have lost your voice, as well as he;  
But since your tongues avail not, let your eyes  
Discharge their last debt to his obsequies.  
Tears have a strong (though silent) eloquence;  
You cannot speak, yet sigh thus out your sense,  
Our Patriot is dead, who oft was known,  
Saving our freedoms, to have lost his own.  
From right who would not swerve, or conscious wrest,  
To please a side, or serve an interest;  
Who lived by rule Divine, and human Laws,  
And did not dread the power, nor court th' applause  
Of the wild multitude, but firmly stood  
To his first principles, and those were good;  
And as his tenants, so we may be bold  
To say, his honours and estate were old.  
H'was born to both, had no need to desire  
To warm his hands, by's neighbours house on fire.  
His plentiful revenues did not rise  
To higher rates, since taxes and excise;  
Fame's trump sound's forth his ancestors renown,  
When th' Henry's, and the Edwards wore the crown;  
Mushrooms of Gentry can straight from a blue  
Be dipped in scarlet, which is honour's hue,  
Yet in his birth and blood he found a stain,  
Till 'twas ennobled, and he born again.  
You reverend Divines go on to tell  
His following story, whom he loved so well.  
You are God's heralds, and by place designed,  
T' emblazon his most noble heau'n-born mind;  
His faith most vigorous, though crossed by sense,  
Could grasp a promise, eye omnipotence;  
Through the black clouds, that 'fore the Church were drawn,  
He could foresee her day was near to dawn.  
The rage of enemies now grown so stout,  
He judged a blaze, before their light went out;  
His zeal towering aloft to heavenly things,  
Yet was discreet, had eyes, as well as wings;  
Humble in height of place, troubles he knew,  
Though great, yet just; by bearing, to subdue.  
His love to Christ, the Church, shone bright as day,  
Ireland can witness, yea America:  
In all these he enjoyed the name, and stile  
Of a true Israelite, and free from guile,  
Though not from sin, yet in a Gospel sense,  
Sincerity is counted innocence.  
This, at his death, caused him such peace within,  
For death scars none, but where it meets with sin.  
His Noble Lady now disconsolate,  
Like a true Turtle, which hath lost her Mate,  
And sad posterity known by their eyes,  
We do not here invite to sympathize;  
'Twere cruelty to strain a bleeding sore,  
Instead of staunching to provoke it more.  
Oh, dry your tears up, whilst you still complain;  
You only mind your loss, but not his gain;  
Were't not more love for to rejoice, as he  
Doth there, then to wish him our misery?  
Repine not at his change, would you again  
Hear him complaining under sin, and pain?  
We in retired corners melt our eyes  
In tears, and breathe our spirits out in sighs,  
Whilst he in glory is triumphant; where  
He never hears a groan, nor sees a tear.  
Our Muse sings nought but Elegies, his tongue  
Is now a-chanting forth a marriage song.  
Grieve not at his new honour lately sent,  
To sit i'th' upper house of Parliament,  
where all three States agree, and none doth strive  
For privileges, or Prerogative;  
Before whose bar other great Courts shall come,  
To give up their accounts, and hear their doom:  
In this the world's supreme just Council, none  
Can cause; or fear a dissolution.  

Ergo triumphatis inferni finibus, ipsâ  
Morte exarmatâ, regna superna petis.  
Quid non fata regunt? senio monumenta fatiscunt;  
Ipsaque cernuntur posse sepulchra mori:  
Sed pietas & rara sides patriaeque cupido  
Fervida vicerunt jura superba necis.  
Dignum hunc laude virum, lex, plebs, ecclesia, cleru●,  
Catera si taceas, vivere musa jubet.  
Cistula diffringi potuit, sed gemma superstes  
Usque nitens, nullo est interitura die.  
Non is vana fuit ingentis nominis umbra,  
Praemia sed meritis fama minora dedit.  
Quem non prava jubens irati principis ardor,  
Non populi rabies mente quatit solida.  
Perstitit ut rupes variis vexata procellis,  
Fixa basi firma, quae tamen usque stetit.  
Heu! vereor ne haec magna domus suffulta columnis,  
Tam validis, ruptis hisce, misella cadat.   
Joh. Owen. Rect. Wrat. par.   

To the Memory of that renowned Knight, Sir Nath. Barnardiston,  

LOok as the Heliotrope the Sun's loved flower,  
That spreads the yellow curtain of her bower  
At his fair rising, closes it again  
When he declineth westward to the main:  
Even so should we, (our Phoebus gone to bed,)  
Shut in our joys, and hang a drooping head:  
Our lips in sables dress, close mourners all,  
Our tongues are to pronounce a funeral;  
A Barmston's funeral; recall that name,  
A name so old, 'twill fit the trump of fame;  
A name too heavy for a slender quill,  
Whose very echo would a Nation fill;  
A name so good, posterity may run  
Division on that name, till time were done.  
Pardon (great Sir) we cannot speak thy worth,  
Apollo's tongue-tied, and must lisp it forth;  
To score each virtue on thy noble tomb  
Would strike invention, and the Muses dumb.  
What choir of well-breathed Lungs screwed ne'er so high,  
Can reach the Ela of that harmony,  
That did concentre in thy pious breast,  
Warb'ling forth Airs, such as the spheres might feast;  
Sweet consort! where the grace's tune their throats,  
And virtues chant their Polyphonian notes,  
Striving t' excel in those diviner lays,  
And crown their Master with celestial bays.  
But oh! we lack an Orpheus in our ears  
That might distinguish (they are stopped with tears)  
Each lofty strain; each rhapsody resound,  
And take each quaver at the first rebound;  
Our sense is dull, and cannot comprehend  
The words they breathed, unless his Ghost do send  
A key t' unlock the closet of his heart,  
(Which may their language to our eyes impart)  
We must despair to read those heau'n-born tones,  
And be content to spell their mind in groans.  
Sure 'twas his music act, he's gone from hence  
To heau'ns-kings chapel there for to commence  
Doctor in glory, and hath left us here  
To celebrate his feast, our funeral cheer.  
Oh! how his consort, and his mourful train,  
Their crystal cisterns broach, draw, tun again,  
Brim full with tears, each tender eye o' reflows,  
And proves a running banquet in the close.  
That friend, who brings a palate in his eyes,  
May fill his stomach at these obsequies.  
But now our dear Maecenas leads the way,  
Come, come; enough, our sorrows cannot stay:  
The slow-paced Mourners wait upon the hearse,  
And teach their feet to tread elegiac verse:  
The virtues which were inmates in his breast,  
Hover about, now they have lost their nest;  
And fear lest they who had a cage of gold  
Be forced to wander (Charity so cold)  
Nay beg for harbour, woo each heart they meet,  
Yet find no lodging but a winding-sheet.  
Unhappy hand of fate, that went about  
To make the holes whereat these Birds flew out●  
These pretty Phil'meles hop from flag to flag,  
Filling th' air with sweetness, as they wag  
Their lovely wings, each ear with eulogies,  
And thus extol their patron to the skies.  
What soaring pinion's able to express  
That well ground constancy, the sole impress  
That ruled thy actions, and as firmly stood  
As doth the oak the Monarch of the wood;  
Whose stately towering top scorns to strike sail,  
(Like to the Poplar) to each whiffling gale,  
And dance a quaver with a trembling bough,  
When Boreas plays a crochet on his brow?  
Men now adays in such a posture stand,  
That's ready to receive each base command:  
Blow what wind will, like the wind-serving Vane,  
They will comply, then as you were again.  
mechanic spirits with their supple joints  
Can ring the changes to a thousand points,  
And please their ears too with that Stygian sound,  
That's harsh enough even Babel to confound.  
But Barm'ston moved in an higher sphere,  
Disdained to crouch unto degenerous fear,  
And on the Hinges turn his Patron knee,  
To dance the humours of disloyalty.  
Blush, blush you servile natures, that can mould  
Your very souls into what frame you would;  
New cast your moulds, and work your brittle clay  
To such a temper, as with honour may  
Heavens-broad-backed Porter Atlas strength excel,  
And underprop the church's citadel,  
And tottering state. A pillar we have lost  
By deaths unhappy stroke (our glory's crossed)  
An ancient Pillar, whose firm basis stood  
Supporters of the truth, and what was good,  
Even when surrounded with the dangerous seas  
Of Errors, ●●hisms, and Metamorphoses;  
Call it Seth's pillar, wonder, and vouchsafe  
To read th' inscription in this Epitaph;  
Behold Nathaniel, says sacred style,  
An Isra'lite indeed, in whom's no guile;  
An holy vessel tunned with noble breath,  
By Surgeons broached, to be drawn out by death.  
Mirror of goodness, and of constancy,  
God's gift, our loss, within this vault doth lie.   

Quòte, maesta pedes? an quò via ducit, in aedem?  
Musa▪ perantiquum quid petis aegra locum?  
Fortè sepulchrales mens est invisere sedes,  
Et veterum exuvias; ossaque spectra times?  
Flebilis illa refert, vix ora in verba resolvens,  
Heu! cineres magni nominis urna tenet!  
Et dictura fuit Barmston, dolour occupat ora,  
Sic vox ipsa haeret faucibus: exit Io.  
Tesequar; at lentis pedibus modò currite versus;  
Funeris, heu, maestos cogor inire modos!  
Stella serena poli cecidit jam gloria nostri;  
O decus! O nostri stella serena poli!  
Hac signante viam, non qualem erraticus ignis  
Nil metuit populus, stagna profunda, dolos.  
Infaustos nusquam radios diffudit in orbem,  
Evomuitve iras, bella nefanda, neces.  
Indidit huic nullas vires natura malignas,  
Quales cancer habet, scorpius, a●que canis.  
Quin dedit aspectus aequos frontemque benignam:  
Luce sub innocuâ non latet ulla lues.  
Scilicet innumeri fulgent hinc indè planetae,  
Et nova dispergunt lumina: quale decus!  
Fert quasi stelliferam per dorsum stellio sphaeram:  
Sed cave, tabificam pixida pectus habet.  
Lucifer Angelico zeli larvatus amictu,  
Decipit incautum credulitate gregem.  
Augustam Phoebi faciem mortalibus aegris.  
Invida opaco aufert corpore Luna suo.  
Non tulit haec nostrum, magno dum luxit in orbe  
Aequali peragens tramite Sydus iter.  
Meeoenas, Trabeatus, Eques, Pascit, Colit, Ornat,  
Clerum, Jus, Patriam, Munere, Voce, Fide.  
Singula quid memorem? Nil non laudabile Barmston,  
Stemmata nobilitans, stemmate prisca suo.  
Nubibus immunis translato est mortis Horizon,  
Occasu claro, pulchrior ortus erit.   
Ra. Astel.   

An Elegy on the Death of the Right Worshipful Sir NATH. BARNARDISTON.  

IF David's Worthies, God himself recount  
In Writ Divine, which doth human surmount.  
If Christ, the anointing of his holy Head  
Deigned, as an honour done t'his Funeral Bed;  
And to requite this precious Mary's favour,  
Embalmed her name with Everlasting savour.  
Then do we not amiss, this faithful Knight  
To praise and recommend; if so me might  
Hereafter move to pious emulation,  
Posterity by holy imitation.  
And not his Son alone, to bear the Name  
And Heir his Grace, but others gain the fame  
Of being like this erst renowned Knight,  
To equal and surpass him, if they might.  
(Whilst others envy) Ministers are bound,  
His praise by Word, and writing forth to sound.  
To him who did Prophets on Earth receive,  
prophet's reward, both God and Man shall give.   

Nathaniel done coruscus Barnardiston  
Vixit in hac terra nobilitatu● Eques.  
Vixisset semper, regeret si stamina vita  
Vox populi, cujus claruit auspic●it▪  
Clarus ad invidiam, quem sic neque dira simultas  
Flexit ab officio carcere, sive mini●.  
Mista priora novis, nec summa pericla movebant  
Obstrictum Patriae cum pietate Deo.  
Eripit hunc nobisque suit mors scaeva, videmur  
Orbatam patriam flere, perinde domum.  
Quem Deus indeed sit, rapuit mors sava, queremur,  
Non rapuit reddens officiosa Deo.  
Ossa quidem nobis anima ascendente reliquit;  
E●apsam ut vestem quam tenet arca pia,  
Qua, Deus expurgans simul & fulgore deaurans,  
Regis in adventu vestiet ad thalamos.  
Haec vates sperans, ovat gestitque videre  
Nunc Monumenta spei, tunc documenta rel..   
Observantiae causa posuit. Clemens Ray.   

On the Death of that most Illustrious and worthy Knight Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston.  
OFt have I seen (in viewing Monuments)  
Of Roral Drops from Marble strange descents:  
Wonder not why this Rocky Marble weeps;  
For lo! here Noble Barnardiston sleeps  
The sleep of death; 'tis strange to cloudy sense,  
That in the Tomb there seems no difference  
twixt just and unjust, Pebble and the Gem.  
Here virtue seems to wear no Diadem.  
'Tis strange here seems to fall such equal lots  
Upon the Traitors, and true Patriots.  
But cease fond heart to wonder, 'tis not hard,  
God is to such th'exceeding great reward;  
And sure to him, who yet could ne'er be won  
To act a Proteus in Religion.  
Reward in life, he met with great renown,  
God did his faithful acts with glory crown.  
Reward in death, for (when the world shall see  
Those Pha●tons in dust interred be,  
Both names and bodies too; and them shall laugh  
To scorn, to see no better Epitaph  
than this: Lo here their skeletons are laid,  
Who once their Country, and their Church betrayed:)  
His name shall live as one, that witnessed well  
Himself to be a true Nathaniel.  

ACROSTIC.  

Nomen in aeternum, Barnurdistone, perenne  
Augusta humanum pectus dum capsula condit,  
Tulampas terris hast inter sydera coeli,  
Haud minimus meliore tui jam parte manebis:  
Accingens radiis nitidis tua tempora Phoebus,  
Noster amator eras, artis sophiaeque patronus:  
Imminuere decus gentis, virtutis honorem  
Electi Heroes; fidei tu semper amicus;  
Lex tibi grandis erat virtus quae nescia vinci.   

Bruma perennis adest nobis te sole cadente,  
Astra calore carent nitidi sine lumine Phoebi,  
Rara fides genti virtus procerumque propago,  
Nostrorumque decus capitis tua gloria magni,  
Ast nihili pendens, tu talia {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} Christi  
Respectuque Dei: sacrato sanguine venas,  
Diluvians, causa est magni Theodorè triumphi  
In coelo solio frueris semperque frueris.  
Siste viator iter: vultum cortina recondit  
Talem quem memores lacrimarum flumine deflent  
Omnes, dona Dei nobis cum numina poscunt,  
Nos decet hanc deflere vicem, gemituque dolere.    
Josephus Skinner, M. A.   

An elegy on the Right worshipful Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston.  
HEre's one that was an Isra'lite sincere,  
In whom all noble virtues did appear;  
A faithful Patriot, one that ever stood  
Firm to God's Cause, and to his Countries good;  
And yet by cruel death's impartial hand  
Laid level with the dust: Who can withstand  
Death's all commanding power? this tyrant's Law  
Is that which keeps the universe in awe;  
He nips the Infant blossom when it springs,  
And aged Snow to dissolution brings:  
And though the faded Rose year after year▪  
With a fresh colour in her leaves appear,  
Age knows no spring, and death will not restore  
His stolen goods, till time shall be no more.  
O happy those that do betimes begin  
To love Christ Jesus, and to leave off sin;  
To walk in holy ways with Simeon old,  
That in the arms of faith their Saviour hold.  
The life of such is blessed, their death much more,  
For than they rest from labour, not before.  
Thus (worthy Barnardiston) thou art blessed,  
Who from thy labours and all pains dost rest.  
Death which for thee a crown of gold prepares,  
Gives unto us a thorny crown of tears,  
And puts us in a mourning frame, for we  
Cannot but have sad hearts, when as we see  
The Chariots and the horsemen yield to fate,  
And few such left to guide the affairs of State:  
But yet our grief for thee shall not proceed,  
'Tis charity to give to those that need,  
That's to ourselves; our miseries and fears  
Require not only floods, but seas of tears.  
Therefore for thee we'll cease our lamentation,  
And take't up for ourselves, and for the Nation;  
Though for our loss we cannot choose but grieve,  
This comfort shall our passions yet relieve;  
That heaven is joyful, and thy blessed state  
Shall be a means our griefs to mitigate.  
O what a happy state it were, if we  
Had no more cause of sorrow but for thee.  

ACROSTIC.  

Non audis nostras, Barnardistone, querelas,  
Aut lacrymis opus esse putas; sed funera fletu  
Tu tua nos ornare vetas; at nos tamen ipsi  
Haud ita sentimus, vanum licet esse fatemur  
Atque supervacuum pro te (vir summe) dolorem;  
Non ita pro nobis, nam mors tibi maxima merces,  
Ipsa tamen summi nobis est causa doloris,  
Et poscit lacrymarum imbres, luctumque perennem,  
Luminaque ut lacrymis turgescant semper amaris.   

Busta viri tanti studeant ornare Camaenae,  
Adsit Melpomene, moestisque boatibus auras  
Repleat, & totus resonet plangoribus aether,  
Nam pietas & prisca fides, & mascula virtus  
Angligenumque decus, jam nunc periisse videntur.  
Religionis honos venerabilis, artis amicus  
Defunctus jacet hic▪ titulis & honore priori  
Impositis parvo turba comitante Sepulchro,  
Sed lacrymis jam parce, sat est, non prorsus ineptus  
Te Theodore mori, quisquis vel posse putabit.  
Onimium Felix frueris meliore senatu,  
Nil ubi juris habet mors, Mar, aut Barbarus hostis.    
J. C.   

On the much lamented death of the right Worshipful Sir Nathaniel Barnardiston.  
I wonder not that Barnardiston's dead,  
But rather that he spun so long a thread;  
Sure 'tis a sound hath echoed through the earth,  
Christ's verdict on nathaniel's second birth.  
Behold an Isra'lite: 'Twas then a wonder,  
But now the Gloworm times that we live under,  
Write such men Miracles, and they we know  
Are ceased, dead, and buried long ago.  
We would enjoyed him longer, but we knew  
Who was the gift of God, was Heavens due.  
(So Job, he gives and takes) cease then to tell  
His worth, whose Epitaph's a Miracle.  

{non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman}.  
{non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman},  
{non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman}  
{non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman}  
{non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman}.  
{non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman}  
{non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman}.  
{non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman}.    

Memoriae Sacrum equitis Nobilissimi, Pientissimique Viri, Nathan. Barnardiston. Equ. Aur.  
QUote corripis, viator, properans?  
In hunc tumulum converte oculos,  
Si modo permiserint  
Lacrymae & singultus tui.  
Jacet hic  
Eques auratus, & vir verè aureus,  
Sinè fuco Israelita, & absque dolo:  
Ipsemet enim Nathaniel:  
Decus Patria, & familiae antiquissimae,  
Quae inter trophaea sua hoc jactitat,  
Quòd talem peperit.  
Amor cleri & Patrocinium:  
Orthodoxa Religionis ingens exemplar & columen,  
Veris Evangeliti Ministris tutela & praesidium,  
Apud eos dum vixerit,  
Hi omnes ornarunt calculo  
Mortuum,  
Lugubri Epitaphio.  
Quippe quòd his indulsit, ut parentem decuit,  
Ut filium, auscult avit obsequentissime;  
Sic quos humi calcavit aetas impia,  
Hic fovebat in sin●.  
Ipsimet enim in deliciis, quos mundus reputat  
{non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman}.  
Lumina ecclesiae radiantia,  
Quae seculi rabies  
Extincta vult, & effossa penitus.  
Heu! quoties 〈◊〉 est, & (Constantini more)  
Deosculatus suaviter.  
Defe male suisque metuit  
Reformata religio.  
Dum talem 〈…〉  
Fidei columnam & 〈◊〉 naculum.  
Quem non gementem audies? Abiit, hem obiit  
Noster Nathaniel;  
Tam coeli quam terra 〈…〉  
Utrobique affulsit 〈◊〉,  
Hic equestri cinctus 〈◊〉,  
Illic corona redimitus gloriae  
Improba & aetate degeneri.  
Cum ultra vivere penitus displicet  
Eja! tunc juvat mori.  
Ultimi in occasu seculi  
Occasum is passus est,  
Ut celo fulgeat fortiori jubare  
Hinc disce Lector;  
Tunc tunc nos coelo maturi sumus  
Cum huic sumus mundo decidui.  
Posuit honoris  
Et debitae observantiae ergô.  
Johan. Allot.   

Chronogramma.  
SI patrlae fIDVs perIIt & VerVs aMICVs, VIr pIVs atque bonVs, VIta perennIs erIt.  
MOrte manet justis sua spes, post fata, futura  
Soecula cum venient, ultima cumque dies.  
Optima sanctorum remanebunt lucra virorum  
Illorum effari gaudia nemo potest.  
Pessima pravorum remanebunt damna virorum  
Illorum effari tristia nemo potest.  

Epitaphium.  
AN justus periit? dici hunc periisse licebit?  
Non licet; in Christo non periturus abit.  
Ast periit justus, dici hunc periisse licebit?  
Heu! periit nobis, non rediturus abit.  
Rara avis in terris est justus, puraque corda  
Sunt inter spinas lilia nata Deo.  
Est constantis opus durum quin ampla corona,  
Spes perit illius qui recidivus erit.  
Temporibus duris frigent pietatis amici  
Vani: sinceri se renovare solent▪  
Talis erat vivus Barnardistonus, & inter  
Omnes emicuit vir bonitatis amans,  
Nathaniel vivus fuit, expers fraud doloque  
Sincerus, constans in pietate fuit.  
Funus justa petit, justum hunc plorare decebit  
Ne plorate nimis, non decet iste dolour.  
Dum vixit Christi valde est gavisus amore,  
Cum Domino moriens percupit esse suo.  
Non sibi sed Christo vixit, nunc mortuus ipse,  
Cum Christo coelis gaudia summa sapit.   

Ad Lectorem.  

En perit justus, perit imbrobusque  
Sorte communi perit omnis, ecce  
Vanitas mundi, cito transit ejus  
Gloria fallax.   

Dum viges fac ut sapas superna,  
Possidens mundum quasi non haberes,  
Est pio terris peregrina coelis  
Vita perennis.    
Pet. St. Hill.   

Justa Nathanieli Barnardistono Equiti Aurato.  
SIccin' abis? Ò serve Dei ter maxime, splendor  
Et columen patriae, & religionis honor.  
Heu! nos cur dubio rerum sub turbine linquis,  
Turbatur mediis, publica puppis aquis.  
Forsitan ingratum quod sese praebuit orbis,  
Praemia nec meritis aequiparanda dedit,  
Vel te subducis dum transit iniqua tyrannis  
Caelitus ereptus, quod super astra regas?  
Irrita vota forent terris obstante caterva,  
Sed fient coelis omnia quaeque velis.  
Te te prisca fides, teque ipsa Ecclesia poscit  
Patronum, fer opem, jam celerato pedem.  
Quid stas? at cadis heu! Deus optime fersque refersque  
Gloria quòd dederis sit tribuenda tibi.  
Subtrahis heu nobis, Deus optime quodque dediste,  
Quod tibi cum placeat, gloria summa tibi.  
Abstinet a lacrymis quis jam? turgentia guttis  
Lumina quis non fert? nocte dieque fluunt.  
Ac veluti fierent modò lumina flumina; cordum  
Hinc gemitus, dolour hinc, quòd pius ille jacet.  
Qui steteras à parte Dei, dum vivus adesses,  
Mortuus aethereas ingrediare domos.  
Miles ut emeritus Christi splendescis honore,  
Coeptis susceptis glorificando Deum.  
Perditur extremus tuus haud orabilis hostis,  
Mors Christi Domini quod teneare fide.  
Ergo praestiteris cum quod Deus imperat, euge!  
In cameram Domini possis inire Dei.  
Offert se nobis Israelitica nubes,  
Parte priore nigrens, posteriore nitens.  
Quod sis sublatus sequitur nigredo superstes,  
Quod tua progenies emicat, inde nitor.  
Ecce triumphantem jam spiritualibus armis,  
Non secus ac Christum tu, sequar ipse ducem.  
Jo. French. Art. Mag.   

Carmen funebre in obitum clarissimi viri D. Nathaniel Barnardiston. equitis Aur.  
OCcubuit clarus claro de stemmate natus  
Barnardistonus, gloria certa suis;  
Gloria certa suis, magis an genere an pietate  
Emicuit quaeras: clarus utroque fuit.  
Sanguinis en quanto fuerat dignatus honore,  
Mentis candores pingere nemo potest.  
Effigiem verae virtutis nobilitatis  
Candoris nivei religionis babes.  
Flete viri, lugete senes, plorate puellae,  
Pulpita maesta, sacri funera fleet viri.  
Nos res lugemus nostras, Ecclesia luget,  
Interitum deflet patria maesta tuum.  
Te nobis vitia & mores rapuere maligni,  
In coelis virtus te tua sancta locat:  
Terra tegit corpus, mens aureo regnat Olympo,  
Fama Anglos inter celsa perennis erit.  
Nath. Eyres.   

In obitum Illustrissimi Domini, D. Nath. Barnardiston, Equitis Aurati.  
PRo dolor! insignis succumbit gloria nostri,  
Nobilium splendor, justitiaeque decus.  
Spes dulcis Patriae decrescit te moriente,  
Te vivente, tuo lumine tuta fuit.  
Aegrite, ●udique carent, & carcere clausi;  
His data non tarda sunt tua dona manu.  
Musarum Pater es, qui sit, post funera Patris  
Praeterea vereor nullus adesse velit.  
Fulgida stella cadit non ultra credita terrae  
Immeritae, at coelis jam quoque fix a manet.  
Verus amor, spes firma, fidesque insignia Christi,  
Omnia florebant pectore clausa tuo.  
Inquè oculis charites habitant & grata venustas,  
Nec minor es proavis tu pietate tuis.  
Coelitùs haec bona te sanctum fecere beatum,  
Et nunc in coelis praemia digna capis.  
Te lugeant omnes, lacrymis sint undique sparsi,  
Vestitus nigros induat omnis amans.  
Qui color albus erat, nunc est contrarius albo:  
Jam, jam, conveniet luctibus ille color.  
Haec ego; dum laudant alii tua facta, tuasque  
Ingenio laudes uberiore canunt.  
Rob. Hobart.   

An EPITAPH. NATHANIEL BARNARDISTON. Anagram. And Art Is In An Noble Hart.  
A Generous Knight and Noble Heart lies here▪  
I'th' Art of living well, he had no Peer.  
A true Nathaniel, and void of guile.  
Stay and admire (Reader) but a while,  
Here Barnardiston lies, our loss bemoan  
With brinish Tears, as doth this weeping Stone:  
Here lies his worst, in Heaven's his better part.  
True worth, And Art Is In An Noble Hart.  
Sylvanus Morgan.   
FINIS.