AN ELEGY IN MEMORY OF THE Much Esteemed and truly Worthy Ralph Martial, Esq One of His Majesty's Justices of Peace, etc. By N. TATE, Servant to His MAJESTY.  Dignum Laude Virum Musa vetat Mori. Hor. 
LONDON: Printed by R. ROBERTS for the Author. MDCC.   

TO THE READER.  
ALL that knew this Worthy Person, will see that I have endeavoured to Write his Elegy in the same honest Plainess and Sincerity with which He Lived. I confess I was more concerned for Resemblance, in this Piece, than for Fineness of Strokes, or Embellishment of Colours. If the Features are hit, it will be acceptable to his Friends, for whose Consolation it was Designed. I must here beg leave to mention one Circumstance, that is, His Intended Retirement from Affairs of This World, that He might devote Himself, Entirely, to the Concerns of a Better: Wither it has pleased Providence to call him sooner than Expected by his Survivers, the Only Sufferers by his Removal. All the Reprisal we can make upon our Loss, is (for the Benefit of ourselves and Posterity) to Celebrate the Memory of his Exemplary Virtues: And an Epicede That does any justice to His Character, will be the most lasting Monument that can be made for Him.   

ELEGY ON Mr. Justice Martial.  

O Can such Worth and Virtue be Expired,  
(By All Lamented, as by All Admired),  
And Muses, whose Complaints should be most Loud,  
Mute Mourners stand amongst the sighing Crowd?  
All Rites performed, that to his Hearse belong,  
And no kind Bard provide the Funeral Song?   

How can they sing, whose Wit and Fancy's fled  
To fetch th' Arabian Phoenix Spicy Bed;  
And of their Treasure Eastern Climes beguile,  
To crown his Urn, and deck the Funeral Pile.   

Mistaken Zeal! let Wit and Fancy rest;  
And Truth be Only for this Service pressed:  
Unblemished Truth, that made his Actions shine,  
And graced his Life, will best Adorn his Shrine.   

Erect a Pyramid; no Lesser Tomb  
Can for his Merit's History have Room;  
That done— Invoke no Muse, but Only Writ  
What Memory, not Invention, shall Indite.   

HEre MARSHAL lies, whom English Virtue crowned;  
Even such as our Great Ancestors renowned.  
Which, if esteemed so Generous and Sublime,  
When 'twas the Mode and Practice of the Time;  
O what was His! that Nobly did engage  
Against a Lewd and most degenerate Age;  
And (as of Iordan's Sacred Stream 'tis said)  
Through a Dead Sea of Vice her Current led  
Clear and Untainted, as the Fountain's Head.   

What Numbers can his Character relate,  
Or as a Member of the Church or State?  
Who though to Each a most devoted Friend,  
Would Neither's Rights, in tother's Wrong extend;  
But justly rendered, as he Wisely knew,  
The Church's, Caesar's, and his Country's Due.   

To Books no Stranger; Books that were of Use  
He read, and into Practice did reduce:  
Studied to know what Sages understood;  
Yet less he studied to be Skilled than Good.   

His Judgement, though discerning and sublime,  
Disdained not to consult with Care and Time:  
This rendered his Performances so vast;  
Nor only great, but modelled Long to Last;  
And, by Deliberation made secure,  
The utmost Test of Censure will endure.   

Regard to Others Sentiments he paid,  
Yet still by Reason, not Opinion, swayed;  
Held to old Custom's venerable Way,  
Till That from Truth's more Sacred Path did stray.  
Firm in Resolves, because with Caution wrought,  
The last Results of well-digested Thought.   

A Mind thus furnished, to complete its Store,  
Can want or wish but One choice Blessing more;  
Which, happy Temper did to Him dispense,  
(The Gift at once of Nature and right Sense);  
That Others Weakness He did ne'er despise,  
Who was Himself the Wonder of the Wise.   

His Conversation by strict Prudence steered,  
In which no Shadow of Offence appeared;  
But of Demeanour the just Pattern gave;  
Discreet in Mirth; without Moroseness, Grave.   

Reserved, yet never failed in due Respect;  
Showed Courtesy to All, to None Neglect:  
Poor Honesty, Above its Rank, would treat;  
Yet ne'er was known to fawn upon the Great.   

For Piety None could have more Esteem;  
Yet Pious rather strove to Be, than seem:  
Sincere as Saints; and, like true Saints, took Care  
To give Religion a Becoming Air.  
Nor thought it just or generous to affright  
The World with That which was his own Delight.   

Not fierce the Zeal that did his Breast inspire;  
Though bright, and lasting, as the Vestal Fire:  
Secret like That— Yet, when from Human View  
'Twas most Retired, descending Angels drew.   

To Business none more vig'rously applied;  
Yet with such easy Passage seemed to glide,  
As if he always sailed with Wind and Tide.  
Cross Gales must oft in Seas of Business rise;  
Cross Currents in each vaster Enterprise:  
Yet, when perplexed, a painful Course he steered,  
Freedom and Pleasure in his Looks appeared.   

When Tempests risen, and Ruin was in View,  
When All, despairing, from the Helm withdrew,  
His Resolution with the Danger grew;  
Performed a Pilot's part of Pains and Skill,  
And left the Rest to Providence's Will.   

Those very Passions that our Peace molest,  
Supported the Calm Empire of his Breast;  
And, tamed to Discipline, did only move  
By Duty's Call, and Orders from Above.   

Blessed Temper, that, through Life's uncertain Scene,  
Can shun Extremes, and keep the Golden Mean;  
With modest Joy receive what chanced to Please;  
And to Affliction give an Air of Ease!   

His Counsels we like Gems did justly prize;  
Yet Oh how generously would he Advise!  
Or if Occasion did Assistance crave,  
His Pains as free as his Advice he gave:  
And if Advice and Pains would not prevail,  
He cast his Interest in, to turn the Scale.   

Like a Warm Sun he dealt his Beams around;  
And Men of all Degrees his Influence found.  
O Comfort, where such Warmth and Light were met!  
O Grief, that ever such a Sun should set!   

Wealth, for Wealth's sake, he never did pursue,  
But for the Good well-managed Wealth could do:  
Commanding That which sordid Souls Obeyed,  
The Miser's God his useful Servant made.   

Rich in Contentment with his moderate Gains,  
He reaped the Harvest of his honest Pains;  
Nor envied Larger Fields, by Fraud procured,  
And with Extortion's poisoned Dung Manured.   

His Justice would (should Fame his Justice tell)  
Be Disbelieved— or thought a Miracle.  
'Twas such as Artless Innocence inspired,  
Before Astraea from the World retired:  
When every Soil produced her Grain, Untilled,  
And Honeydrops from every Tree distilled:  
When Angels had of Mortals little Odds;  
Earth seemed a Heaven, and Men a Race of Gods.   

But One Celestial Flower is wanting yet,  
The Garland of his Virtues to complete:  
His Charity— Still loath to come in View,  
As heretofore she modestly withdrew  
From the World's Eye; and fell like Midnight Dew.   

Whenever a Public Visit she did make,  
'Twas not for Pomp, but good Example's sake:  
To clamorous Want more sparingly she gave;  
But Went to such as could not Come to Crave;  
Stole, to Domestic Poverty, her Way,  
That Sick and Gasping in Obsourement lay:  
Distress of every kind employed her Care,  
But modest Mis'ry had the Largest Share.   

From hence the vast Success we understand  
Of every Work that MARSHAL took in Hand.  
What could he not, with Prudence for his Guide,  
And Providence, in secret League Allied?   

Where will the Chain of his just Praises end,  
Should Fame as far her Elegy extend?  
Where shall she Writ—  
The Husband, Father, Master, and the Friend?   

Happy the Realm where Government's maintained  
Like that which in his private Household reigned;  
The Mansion, where, as in some Patriarch's Tent,  
Peace, Piety, and Angels did frequent.   

Yes— There so long they made their Residence,  
Till They, in kind Surprisal, bore him Thence.  
They watched their Time to make Him now their Guest,  
And gently stole Him to Eternal Rest.   

Few Months had his long-wished Retirement given,  
Which is on Earth, the nearest Stage to Heaven;  
But Heaven, as if Impatient of Delay,  
Sent down to meet th' Elijah on his Way.   
FINIS.