CERTAIN ELEGIES Upon the Death of PETER whaley Esq late Major of NORTHAMPTON. Upon the sudden death of the much lamented Mr Peter whaley, then Major of Northampton, 1656. COuld not the top of Honour, nor of Wit? Our Patriot from so sudden death acquit? Can not his Justice, Piety, nor Power, In Court, Town, Country, stay his soul one hour? Can not his Office, Friends, nor his dear Wife, Children, Prayers, Tears, prevail to save his life? No sooner did the Bridegroom his Soul call, But strait to follow him, he leaves us all; Let us not mourn to see his Soul thus soar, Who is not lost, but only gone before. B. I. In obitum Dignissimi viri tam in alios morum suavitate, quam summa in Deum pietate, Petri whaley, qui Praetor Northamptoniensis existens fatis concessit. HOs non exornant cineres fusae arte Columna, Verba nec ex auro, marmore sculpta nigro; Dicere (qui fuerat) sunt haec inidonea prorsus Vtraque, nec meritum justa referre suum. Editus à Civi fuit hîc utroque parente, Munia & hac nostrâ sustulit urbe benè. Consulis officium longò hinc cum laude subivit, Factus & ad duplicem Praetor in urbe vicem. Primus hic it praesens & quinquagesimus annus, Vita nec exactis totque diebus adhuc. Hen minus expleto naturae cederet actu, Ceu Rosa praeproperâ verna revulsa manu. Hinc lachrymae, hinc gemitus nostrates plura quòd aeva Corvus agit, paucos casta Columba dies, Exprimit infandum vicinia tota dolorem, Rustica plebs gemitum dat replicatque suum. Insequitur lachrymis lectissima funera conjux, Defunctum deflent pignora chara patrem Justa sequens madidis Clerus Comitatus Ocellis, Vrbs sibi majorem fletque doletque pium. Omnia maestitiam sapiunt, Domus ipsa parentat, Induitur Limbum parma Whalaea nigrum. Vtque nihil desit nostratia fata referre, Non cohibet lachrymas aethera pulla crebras. Th. M. Upon the pious Life, and sudden Death of his Dear Brother Mr Peter whaley Major of Northampton, and late Burgess in Parliament, who died April 8. 1656. Aetatis suae, 50. BLame not our sighs and tears, when ye So many dead in one shall see; A zealous active Magistrate, To his dear Wife a loving Mate; His children's Crown, the Town's delight, He served good men with all his might, The Clergies joy, and Real Friend, Religion's Patron to his End; Comfort to th' Poor, relieved the Oppressed, The Tongues and Hearts of (All) him blest, His Country's guide, an help to (All) Thousands lament his sudden fall: Yet happy, He is now ascended, His joy begun, his work is ended. His God, his Country, and his Friend, He loved, and served unto his End. W. H. Chronogramma Enchomiasticon in immaturum obitum dignissimi viri Petri whaley qui sexto Idus Apr. An. Dom. 1656. fato cessit. 831 qVICqVID est tIbI terrenI SVCCVbVIt fato, 173 Ingent IqVe sepVLChro frVItVr. 527 hast VIrtVs tVa pietasqVe VeneranDa 125 erVnt VICtores sVbItI praeFproperIqVe fatI. 1656 Sub hoc velo tegitur I. H. M. S. Upon the much lamented death of my worthy Friend, Mr Peter whaley. WHere are those Pyramids, whose envious height Challenged the clouds and did obscure the light? Where is the tomb of Mausolus, which gave His noble ashes a renowned grave? Where are the walls of Babel? Or the Shrines Of great Lucina, Goddess of those times? Alas! these Wonders long ago did die, And in their ruins cry—. Mortality. The Spade of Time rides triumph in their date, And in their Ashes writes a humane fate. Well: be it so; let death contrive a Tomb, For what the brain of man, or else the Womb Is parent of; yet shall thy Virtue shine, Among the Stars, and conquer death and Time. Thy active soul, which was no child of Earth, But is the off spring of a purer birth, Shall laugh at fear; and filled with sacred fire, Sing Hallelujahs in the Angel's choir. Thy spotless Fame shall soar with her white wings, Above the clouds of Envy, whilst she sings Thy Panegyric, and in welcome lays Recrowns thy Hearse, with her immortal Bays. And thus thy Soul, thy Virtue, and thy Fame, Shall not be subject to a mortal Name. Ita flevit, John Howes Minister of God's Word at Abington. A Throne upon the much lamented Death of my worthily Honoured and Dear Friend (Of Pious and Fragrant Memory) Mr PETER whaley, then Major (the second time) of Northampton, etc. Expressed under the Scheme of a Dialogue, Inter indignum quendam defuncti Amicum, & loci Genium. Amicus. WHat means this Face of things! how is thy Brow (Fair City) clouded, that was clear but now! What pensiveness is this?— Whence issuing Are all these Briny Floods?— Ah,— Where's the Spring? What strange amusing sighs are heard! What moan From every Breast, accented with a Groan! Ah! What sad direful Omen boadeth this So sudden ghastly Metamorphosis? If in thine eyes a stranger may find grace, Tell me thou friendly Genius of the place. Genius O cease enquiry; Shallow-Grief may speak: Sure that is tongue-tied which the heart doth break. But since thy Brimful watery eyes bewray, A Sympathy in sadness with the Day: Come; let us mingle tears:— It's some relief, To have Companions with us in our grief. Our angry Fate inverts the Proverb thus: The more, The Sadder, Therefore join with us. What! the loved Husband new bereaved of life Not strike amazement in the Loyal Wife! Shall Orphan-childrens see before them lie The Carcase of a Father,— and not cry! Nay,— Shall the Head lie severed on the ground, And the pale Trunk not die into a swound! Such is thy Fate (sad Town)— this day in thee Thy Husband, Father, Head, doth cease to be: More I would say,— but sadness hath oppressed My struggling Soul;— let me groan out the rest. Amicus. What's this I hear! Good Genius recollect, And do not thus my frighted sense affect. Gen. Ah— wretched me! He's gone! (Amic.) What he is that? Un-case thy mind: Thy tropes Enucleat. Gen. Ah, He is gone! the Ornament, the Gem Within this City-circling Diadem! The Soul within this body, and the clear Moving Intelligence of this our Sphere! Ah! Had he lived (Northampton) thy blessed state Had raised thee emulation, but not hate. Thy Industry had surely sprung the Mine Within the Channel of the Silver Nine: Whilst he by lawful Magic did contend, That Fire out of Water might ascend. Ah! Had he lived; Thy Virtue, Piety, Thy Zeal to sound Religious Honesty, Thy equal Justice, candid innocence, Had still prolonged thy Glory, thy defence. But ah! Troy was! Thy Crown is fallen, and now Despair and Horror sits upon thy brow: Thy Scarlets turned to Sables, and thy Pride, The Fasces and Securis laid aside. Thy crabbed Lictors now can skill to weep, And Praeficae are found in every Street. Hark! Dost not hear the slowly swinging Bell Ring out, with sullen-Roar, a doleful knell? Prepare thy heart, prepare thy fluent eyes, To celebrate his last sad Excquys. Thy pious, prudent Praetor, Major. Head, Consul, and Father, The loved whaley's dead! Break open the Floodgates, let the Sluices go, Create, from Living Springs a Deluge so; Then mingle Streams with Nine (subdue thy Fears) And make it navigable with thy Tears. That Fluid Crystal of his Name shall be The Monument to late Posterity. Amic. Was this the Omen! Is it so! then Genius farewel, I'll try what I (alone) can do, in some dark gloomy Cell. Haec, gemitus inter & singultus anhelans, Flevit F. A. To the memory of his Pious and Prudent Friend Mr Peter whaley late Major of Northampton. HE that but little skills to make a Verse, Is pressed to pay some duty to this Hearse; Sad is the Subject, so's our Verse; but know Losers have leave to talk, that feel the Blow; Affection makes the Poet now, not Wit; Light trimming mourning weeds can never fit. Lo here the Ruins of a Casket lies, That late contained a Pearl of goodly Prize; The Pearl's dropped out indeed, but by Remove Of Blessed Angels now 'tis fixed above, That's safe; 'tis we the losers are alone, In black and white, thus come to make our moan. Here lately shone those Graces from above, Well tempered Zeal, with Knowledge, Faith, and Love, With Temperance, Meekness, Patience, Moderation, The blessed Spirit there took up his station; His Public cares, his Private him commend, He was the Church's Nurse, the Good man's Friend. P. Plain, Pious, Prudent, Peaceful was his Praise, W. Wife, Well-bred, Willing, Watchful in his Ways. He's now to Dust returning: Ah the day, That turned this Gold into a lump of Clay, But so the choicest Trees culled out we find, When Thorny Shrubs enough are left behind: Northampton sit i'th' Dust, cause there he lies; And now you have lost your Head, don't spare your Eyes. The fairest Fabrics fall to ruin must, Whose Pillars crack, and crumble thus to dust. Come Leveller, Death leads thy Van away, Black Coats and Scarlet Gowns shall Homage pay To his commanding Rod of Sequestration, Such Men, such Christians, don't become the Nation; What dust-heaps makes he of the choicest sort! To kill poor Flies, and Beetles 'tis not sport; Grim death of late does sure pursue their cries, Who scorn dominion, kick at Dignities; Or else with Hell combines to part the fray, To rout the Good, that Hell may win the day; No, no, Death's errand is from Heaven, and we More sober, stand amazed such change to see; Sad Omen. such Eclipses boad no doubt. When Lanterns break to pieces, Lights go out; Some storms will follow sure this Thunderclap, Judgements break in, when Moses leaves the gap: When Guides and Shepherds in their Beds are laid, Poor wand'ring Sheep of Wolves may be afraid; Yet don't despond, though Conduits broken are, God's Fountain's full, these Breaches he'll repair; Sad Mourners, spend your tears on sin; You then Shall blest be here, or else with him again. Upon his sudden Departure. O that our Fate in's loss betimes we knew, That tried we might what prayers and tears could do; This sudden blow had we but feared before, We should have grieved the less, but prayed the more: Heavens wise disposing hand, decreed it so, The shortest cut to glory he should go; Say not 'twas sudden Death, but all in hast He took his leave, his time was overpast; His work being done, he gently steals away, Culled out, he lingers not, nor makes delay: No Feverish heats his fainting Limbs must burn, And melt by drops this gold into its Urn, No Dropsies cold, nor Agues racked his bones, No Atrophy drilled out his life in groans; He's well, a Summons comes, he turns aside, Like Moses meek, only went up and died. Rome's Imperator often wished to be Posted away by such Euthanasie, And yet his Pilgrim soul could little know, Wither when outed hence, it than should go; Much better He, that heaven hath sure in's Eye, May wish, not fear at least, thus quick to die; Dejected seldom he, who daily dies: Death laid in ambush cannot him surprise. 'Tis not a body crazed, but soul that's sound, That for departure hence stands ready bound; Consumptive pains not always waste the sin; A Life well led, Death only welcomes in. Peace then in this, no more lament at all; Who waits his change as he, can never fall. Upon his Interring in the Church of All-Saints in Northampton. BUt say where shall this sacred dust Lie till the raising of the Just? This close lodged Guest, where shall he be Hid for this World's eternity? What structure's this? to whom related? Fame tells to Saints 'twas dedicated; If All Saints here a part should have, Saint Peter then may claim a Grave; 'Tis not that Apostolic he Lies here, yet Peter 'tis you see, And Saint he was sincerely true, Saint Peter then may be his due; What ere he was, one part you see Here wrapped up in Mortality, His better part to God is gone, His Warfare's finished, work is done. Blessed soul adieu, our losses thy gain, Thy pleasure's full, while we in pain. Impartial Fame shall dress thy story, Thy Name lives here, thy soul in glory. PETER whaley Anagram They Reap Well. THey Reap well That Heaven obtain; Who sow like thee, Ne'er sow in vain. On the Life, and sudden Death of my Dear Brother, Mr Peter whaley. REader, Vouchsafe to know before thou pass, Whom th'Church, the Town, and County lost: He was A Magistrate filled with a public mind, To all's private relations dear and kind. Helpful to th' poor, to Friends he faithful proved, Honest to all, of honest men beloved; Fixed in OLD Truths, when Times for NEW Truths were; He made both Church and Ministry his care. He served his God, though's business did abound, When his Lord called, he was SO DOING found. On his sudden Death. Although the sacred Preacher cannot lie, Yet this Good Man searce found * Eccles. 3.2. a Time to die. Was his departure strange, not being sick? God made it easy, as Death made it quick. His death was such that it may almost be said, As Paul of some, he's rather changed then dead. He died like Moses, with this difference still, Moses went up, and he went * He died in an house standing at the bottom of an high hill, which hill he walked down a little before his death. down the hill. Though when death came, he was i'th' bottom found, His active soul, soon got the higher ground. Whilst others fet a compass, here is one, That unto heaven the next way is gone, Though in this race, others with him begun, Yet all quite out of distance hath he run. Like Snails we duller mortals do but creep, But he he hath done it with a running leap. Death stole behind, as if itself him feared, Knowing he was beforehand well prepared. His being slipped so soon out of this life, Twixt: Saints and Angels did prevent a strife; They would have held him here to help them still, These would remove him hence their choir to fill; Should all wear blacks that have a cause to mourn, The Sun itself must into darkness turn, And the black night a blacker garment have, So all this World be but as whales grave; Should all due tears be shed from clouds and men, A second Flood would drown the World again. I. H. An Elegy on the sudden and much to be lamented death of Peter whaley Esq twice Major of Northampton, and lately Burgess for the Corporation, who to the public grief departed this life, April 8. 1656. IF Love or Honour could exempt from death, Then hadst thou still enjoyed thy vital breath. If Friends or prayers could subdue the grave, Then thou on earth another life shouldst have. But since no love, nor honour, friends or prayers Can life restore; let us in floods of tears, Lament our loss, and with affection mourn, Because the Head is from our Body torn. A good man's gone, like Enoch in great haste; Oh cruel death forbear, make not such waste. He was a godly man of unstained life, A friend to peace, an enemy to strife; A publique-spirited man, made up of Love, Wisdom and meekness, graces from above. He was a Pillar, yea a corner stone, A Major, a Burgess, fit for Northampton. An active-spirited man in Church and state, Prized by godly men at a high rate. A tenderhearted man unto the poor, And openhanded to them at his door. A Phinehas for his zeal, like Moses right, He led the people, till called out of sight; Like David, faithful to his friend, like Paul Discharged a good Conscience unto all. He living walked with God, and now he's dead, The grave is to his body like a bed, Whilst his refined soul mounts to the sky, Clothed with glory, and eternity. Samuel Cibs. In Obitum Charissimi Patris mei, Petri Whallaei Armigeri, Qui hujus vitae limina disseruit, Sexto Iduum Aprilis, An. Dom. 1656. EN! Petra, percutitur, Lachrymarum hinc effluit amnis, Ex oculis Guttae fluminis instar eunt. Ecce! Genas fletu conjux tua chara rigavit: En hic! En illic! Quaeque latebra dolet; Eruptis Lachrymis diffundit turba sepulchrum, Acriter exululans, hîc jacet Vrbis Honos. Nos tam foelices, donec te fata vocabant! Jamque jacent tumulo gaudia nostra tuo. Quis fueris constat; lachrymis agnosceris illis, Non tibi chara magis conjuge vita fuit. Singulus Sobolis Patrem testantur amantem, Dum deflent populi te quasi Semideum. Praesidium miseris, Patriae Tutela fuisti: Quis scit an & manes hic quoque tangat honos! Ibat ad occasum sic Lux clarissima Gentis, Et sanctum Tumuli condidit umbra caput; Si tamen illius meritis Par vita daretur, Non nisi cum mundo debuit ille mori. In Eundem. Vita fuit Christi, tua gloria; Mors, tibi lucrum: Fit tua vita, Dei gloria, Morsque tui: Audax ante diem sic Mors tua lumina clausit, At sibi Mors nunquam plus licuisse putet. Nunc habitas cives inter stellantis Olympi, Vitaeque aeternae Gloria Christus erit. Thy Saviour's Life, thy Glory was, His shameful Death thy gains; Thy life (blessed Saint) Christ's glory was, By Death thy life remains. Why cruel death before due time, Didst close his glorious eyes? O think not to repeat thy crime, God's Saints must shortly rise. His Blessed Soul's in Heaven above, 'Mongst the Celestial Train, Where Christ imparts out of his Love Glory to him again. N. whaley. An Elegy upon the Death of his Dear and ever Honoured Father Mr PETER whaley. 'tWill not excuse to say I have no vain Of Poetry; who is there can refrain, When such friends fall, and death ambitious how To raise his Triumph, makes such Worthies bow? Who would not try to sigh and sob a Verse, When 'tis t' attend, and wait upon this Hearse? When Death arrests (I see) and calls away, Goodness can't bail, nor virtue cause delay; Death was too quick for us, not him; but stay, He did not kill, but stole this prize away: Death knew he was prepared, and therefore sent No Gout to tell him that he must repent; A tedious sickness had his friends more grieved, He then had longer died, not longer lived. There's none will blame a wind, 'cause it doth send Their Ship too soon unto their journey's end; He now a journey took, who oft did go To England's City, now goes to Heavens too. Best things not always last the longest, so Silks will out sooner wear than wool or toe. Nay it had injured his high soul to wear His body till his flesh had looked threadbare. Since he must go, with us no longer stay, Death was his friend to guide the nearest way. He only slept in haste, as if to die Had no departure been but ecstasy; The key of Mercy gently did unlock The door 'twixt heaven and it when life did knock; We weep not therefore for his loss, but ours Which is so great; drops will not serve but showers. Our father's dead! ours is the grief, and then How vast it is, that neither tongue nor pen, Is able to express, alas, and I Can only shadow forth our misery! Ah! who can grieve with us poor souls, whose grief Admits no equal, but transcends belief. Our dearest Father, in whose breast did lie Our life, is fled into Eternity. The Child, the Widow, weep with equal strife, Who should weep most, his children or his wife. Come weep with us, who ever reads or hears, And know his loss deserves his Country's tears. The Church hath lost a Patron, by his Fate, A Friend his Country, and a prop the State: Who would not therefore now, if Virtue's friend, Bewail his sudden unexpected end? Who has such hard, such unrelenting eyes As would not weep, when so much virtue dies? But he is gone; our task's to imitate What he was doing till he was stopped by fate. Our future virtuous deeds are Legacies, Which from the gift of his example rise. God grant that I whom Nature made his Son May be (like him) until my race be run; So faithful to my God, Church, Country, Friend, And all concerned Relations to The End. P. W. Peter whaley, Anagram A white Pearl.