IN MEMORY OF Joseph Washington, Esq Late of the MIDDLE TEMPLE, AN ELEGY.  
Written by N. TATE, Servant to Their Majesties.   

LICENCED  
November 7. 1694. EDWARD COOK.   


CAN Learning's Orb, when such a Star Expires,  
No Notice take of it's extinguished Fires?  
Can WASHINGTON from Britain's Arms be torn,  
And not one British Muse his Hearse Adorni?   

Since abler Bards his Obsequies Decline,  
And They whom Art inspires desert his Shrine,  
I'll trust my Grief his Funeral Dirge to Breath;  
I'll Crown his Tomb, though with a fading Wreath.  
Nor shall the Boasting Fates have this to say,  
That unobserved they stole such Worth away;  
No— since Mankind a Loss in him sustain,  
We'll of that Wrong to all Mankind Complain.   

O whither tend the famished Hopes of Wit,  
That does whole Years in Brooding Study sit!  
From Early Dawn, till Day forsakes the Sky,  
And Midnight Lamps the absent Sun supply;  
Why should the Learned, with Chymist's Patience wait  
Their Works Projection, never gained till Late?  
If, soon as got, Fate's rigid Law must Doom  
Them, and their rich Discovery to one Tomb!  
Why should we Ancient Arts steep Ruins Climb,  
And backward Trace the Painful Steps of Time?  
Why moil, and ransack, for a Golden Mite  
Past Age's Rubbish till we lose our Sight?  
If baffled from the Search we must Retire;  
Or, having seized it, o'er the Prize Expire.   

In vain does friendly Nature too Combine,  
And with our Industry her Forces join;  
In vain her Ablest Faculties are brought,  
Quick Fancy, Judgement to perfection wrought,  
And Memory, the Magazine of Thought;  
Convincing Reason, Charming Eloquence,  
All these she did to Him we Mourn Dispense;  
To Him who lies in Death's cold Arms enclosed,  
And leaves his Sacred Fame—  
To such an Artless Song as mine, Exposed.   

O for a Mausolaeum! no less Tomb,  
Can for his Merit's History have Room:  
Then let some Angel from the Realms of Light  
Descend, the shining Epitaph to Write!  
No Mortal Wit his Character may give;  
Our Verse can only on his Marble live.   

His Genius rivalled Rome's and Athen's Fame,  
Breathed Virgil's Majesty, and Homer's Flame;  
Touched the Horatian Lyre with equal Ease,  
Sailed with Success on Tully's flowing Seas.   

In Languages his Knowledge was Sublime,  
From Modern to the Speech of Infant Time.  
Thus from the Sacred Oracles he drew  
Those Truths, which scarce the Patriarches better knew.   

The Sages, by Antiquity Admired,  
(Who justly to the Name of Wise Aspired,)  
In Speculation ne'er could soar so High,  
Nor Contemplation to such Use apply;  
For He, his Life adjusting to his Thought,  
Practised more Virtue than those Masters Taught.   

His Soul of every Science was the Sphere,  
Yet Artless Honesty sat Regent there;  
Bright Learning's Charms none better understood,  
Yet less he studied to be Learned, than Good.   

To Truth, in Notion, as in Practice, just,  
Ne'er servily his Knowledge took on Trust;  
Nor held for Sacred Custom's doting Dreams;  
Disdained to drink Tradition's muddy Streams:  
But to clear Principles had still Recourse,  
Nor rested, till he found the happy Source:  
And then, with generous Charity possessed,  
His Country with the rich Discovery blest.   

His Skill in Laws was less for private Gain  
Employed, than public Freedom to Maintain;  
While Mercenaries with the Current steered,  
His Country's constant Patron he appeared.  
With Roman Virtue at the needful Hour,  
Opposed encroaching Tides of Lawless Power.  
His brandished Pen, in Liberty's Support,  
Could Lightning on th' astonished Foe retort.  
Scarcely in Marvel's keen Remarks we find  
Such Energy of Wit and Reason joined.  
Great Milton's shade with pleasure oft looked down,  
A Genius to applaud so like his Own.   
FINIS.   

London: Printed for Richard Baldwin, near the Oxford-Arms in Warwick-Lane, 1694.