AN ELEGY On the miraculously Learned, and much Lamented BISHOP of ARMAGH. Licenced and entered according to Order. LONDON Printed by Francis Leach, 1656. AN ELEGY On the miraculously Learned, and much Lamented Bishop of Armagh. WHy does my lowly Pen aspire so high, To write the Reverend Usher's Elegy? The Subject's sacred, and therefore 'tis fit It should be handled by Canonic Wit, Mine's but Apocryphal. I am no Poet To blazon this great Saint. Some Learned one do it. (Or has his death, a more chastising Doom Then th' Visitation, struck the Muses dumb?) Fain I would sacrifice unto his Fame Numbers as high and Noble as his Name; But my Muse wanteth such Herculean strength, As to Portray the Holy One at Length: This humble Tribute I pay to his Hearse, To speak my sorrow, Not to boast my Verse; Is it a Real truth Armagh is dead? Tears! overflow and Deluge my Dull Head, That it, thereby made fertile, may bring forth Some Petty Offering to embalm his Worth. Arts droop, the Church grows dark the Gospel-Light Seems for to bid the Nation now good Night. Sad Symptoms these, which do import, 'tis true, Armagh is gone, and England's Glory too. How? ne'er a Comet? nor an Earthquake neither? To Usher out this Reverend Holy Father? No dismal Voice? or Vision to foreshow, And give us warning of this heavy blow? Have we out-sinned the Men of Ninevey? More heinous? More Prodigious than they? Is our guilt ripe? and heavens incensed hand Ready to pour destruction on the Land? And was this great Apostle sent for hence, To make way for approaching Vengeance? Let the wild Doctors of the Tub persuade 'Tis Zion, where they drive their godly trade. Maugre their vifions, dreams, and holy Prate, 'Tis a sad Truth, and I'll make bold to say't, This was the Moses who stood in the Gap, Whose death portends some dreadful after-clap For those Abominations which of late Have Gangrene-like o'rspred both Church and State. Armagh departed? Babel then beware, Thy doom, by Consequence, is drawing near: (So when blessed Lot, by Angels fetched, went out, Brimstone and fire fell on the Sodom Rout.) This was the man. So just, So stout, So sage, The Shame and Glory of our sinful age. How said I, Man? that Epithete's too mean, Armagh was more. The miracle of Men. Can he be less who was both learned and meek? Can he be less who never did self-seek? Can he be less who knew no Guile? no Gall? Wise as a Serpent, yet a Dove withal? Can he be less, who knew no kind of Pride, And yet knew more than all the Land beside? Hid not his Talon, but improved it, Not for his own, but Public Benefit: Like the Industrious Bee, which flies abroad, And toils to freight her hive for Common good. His Intellect scorned to be confined by Dover, Bravely expatiating the whole world over: Like to the Reverend Noah Janus-faced, Had a Reflex look to the Ages past, Scanning the Actions and the Ar●s of old, Slighted their Dross, but treasured up their Gold. Beyond the Common Ne plus ultra He (Drake-like, ambitious o● Discov●rie,) Sailed still on, Bounded by no degree On this side of Universality, Storing his Country with more noble Prize, Than that which in the Western Climate lies: America doth no such Mines contain, As those comprised i'th' Indie of his Brain. Nor was his Piety below his Par●s, Right Metropol'tan both in Grace and Ar●s, Vast as his knowledge His Integrity, High in's own Fame, and others Infamy, Who could be Good, although the Tim●s were Bad, Hated a Rotten heart and Giddy head. What ever Changes were He kept his ground, Seeming the Axe on which the Wheel turned Round. While other Light ones Governed by the Tide, This way and that way shamefully did slide: (Like a firm Rock) Armagh still fixed stood, Moved only thus, to smile at th' fickle flood. Not swayed by Fear, or Favour, or by Passion, Kept to the Rule, God's Laws, & those o'th' Nation. A Saint in practice, not in stile, like Those Whose Sanctity consists in painted shows, Specious pretexts, and counterfeit Devotion; (At best but pious frauds to get promotion.) Such Arts he scorned, and well he might; for He Was more celest, than these can seem to be▪ No New Light, But one of the good Old stamp; No blazing Meteor, but a burning Lamp. A Luminary so divinely bright, His beams (Sunlike) had Heat as well as Light. A good Samaritan indeed; Who did Pour forth his pains and oil, where he saw need. Free from the Errors of the Church of Rome, And those more fatal heresies at home. Methinks I see him in the Pulpit still, Laying about him against Sin and Hell, With that twoedged sword the word of God Made keener by his Edifying Nod. How Zealous was he in this holy War? How did he combat with the Prince o'th' air? How did he bear up True Religions crown? How did he beat the deeds of darkness down? How did he wound a hardened Conscience, And, even seared, bring it unto sense? How did he heal a wounded Conscience too? Weep Lincolns-Inne, and witness this is true. You Judges, that were wont Close Bribes to take, And favour Causes for the Persons sake, Are you more Righteous and Religious now? Weep, and confess Armagh reform you. You Lawyers, that disdained to plead for th' Poor, Unless an Angel at your Study door Spoke in's behalf, Are you less covetous grown? Do you take moderate Fees, and sometimes None? Weep o'er this Hearse, (the Case is altered well) 'Twas blessed Usher wrought this miracle. You Students, that of late were full of Lust, And paid at leisure, where you went on Trust, Are you more chaste? more just? Nor Rant? nor whore? Nor wrong your Creditors, as you did before? Weep o'er this Hearse, and let your sad Complaints, Speak you converted by the best of Saints. You Ladies, that were wont to paint and spot, And for your pleasure do (you best know what) Have you sincerely cast the Leopard ski●? Do you hate spots without, and spots within? Weep o'er this Hearse, and in sad Accents tell, He's gone to Heaven, who rescued you from Hell. You Tradesmen, who were used to lie and cheat, And hug a thriving prosperous deceit, Are your weights and your Consciences now right? Will your wares and your works endure the light? Weep o'er this Hearse, that so the world may see, Armagb begat your Zeal and Honesty. Nor is the Loss confined here. (Even All Have cause to mourn.) 'Tis Epidemical. So vast a Ruin, such a Desolation Requires an Universal Lamentation. Armagh's decease in a most solemn way Calls for a public Humiliation day. Sackcloth and Ashes would become his Hearse, Much better than slight tears, or slighter verse. Ah cruel Fates! are you turned Lev'llers too? Strive to outvie the Goth and Vandal Crew? No Reverence to Holy Order? Grace? No Mercy to a Man of God? 'tis Base. ruined more Worth in a Moment here, Than a whole Age can possibly repair. Here Rome lies sacked; and it may be said, Athens is here likewise demolished. (That wound to Learning, Pagans wasting Greece, Did but forerun, and Type-like point at this.) Death! thou hast donethy worst: we may defie'thee, And all the mischief that can now come by'thee. E'en pick and choose, and spare not. We can lose Hereafter but as a Cracked Merchant does, By petty parcels. Here a dram of Wit Thou mayst take from's, or something like to it. A grain of Virtue there, (and well so too, Considering Men and Manners what theyare now.) No such blow this. For why, who can deny'it? The World is half undone, and Bankrupt by'it. What e'er was Eminently Great or Good, In Usher fell, is to be understood. Behold a ruin'd University, Be it remembered England once had three, Armagh made up the famous Trinity, Oxford and Cambridge, in Epitome. Nor is it Hyperbolical, to say His Head contained as many tongues as they. Nothing exempts from surly Fate I see, Armagh himself yiels to Mortality. Forgive me (Noble soul) I sin to say, Thou didst go hence in 〈◊〉 Mortal way. Armagh? That ●ound's enough to claim bold death, Armagh? That Name implies triumphant breath. I grant thou wert above the Power of Fate, The righteous die not, but they, are translate. What is in others Forced, in thee was Free, Thou didst not die, but Court thy Destiny? Thy task being finished here, Thou didst aspire, To bear a part in the Celestial Quire. Farewell great Saint, We may Lament thy Loss, But cannot speak thy worth. Our sordid Dross Does but adulterate thy sacred Gold, None but a Seraphim can thee unfold. As much above our praise thou art, as we In Grace were Undergraduates to thee. Nor needest thou Monument of Brass or Stone, Thy own hands have built a more Lasting one, Which shall Record thy Fame and Virtuous Parts, While there are Learned Heads, or Holy hearts. (But herein only lies thy happy story, Thy Miter's turned into a Crown of Glory.) The EPITAPH. REader, weep a tear, And grant Here does lie, A Mytered Saint. Here Armagh himself is laid, Enough, there needs no more be said, All that is Great, All that is Good, Lies here Interred, is understood. FINIS.