AN elegy Sacred to the immortal Memory of the most Worthy, and most Lamented, JOHN PYM, Esq.  
Who having done most remarkable Service to the State, was on Friday being the 8. of Decemb. 1643. translated from the House of COMMONS, to the upper House of Glory, and Parliament of Angels in Heaven.  
The Memory of this never to be forgotten Patriot deserveth truly to be observed by every Man, who stands well affected to the True Religion, the laws, and Liberties both of Parliament and kingdom: His Body (both the Houses, and the Assembly of the Divines being present) was carried with solemn Honour and Magnificence by six of the House of Commons: The Reverend Divine, Mr. Stephen Martial did Preach the funeral, who did take his Text out of the Seventh of Micah, the first and second Verses. The words were, The Good Man is perished out of the Earth, and there is none upright among Men, &c.  
WHat Sacred Light is this? What glorious Guest  
Is pleased to lodge in my unworthy breast,  
And with a hidden touch my Soul inspires,  
Rapted in amazements and transporting fires;  
'Tis thou (Great shade) thou, whosoe'er Thou be  
That leavest the world in darkness, thou art he;  
In me 'twere vile Ingratitude to rue  
Thy loss, whose lustures warm me thus, yet who  
(When all dissolves) can with a careless eye,  
(Untouched at Fate) stand unlamenting by?  
Let us call home our griefs then, all which show  
Those the most worthy where most high they flow,  
We must dispatch them unto heaven, to tell  
This Murder done, for since he did excel  
So pure, so just in all things, who can quit  
The hand of Death, that now must answer it:  
When Death doth life to innocence deny,  
Death sins himself, and Death himself must die.  
Be kind unto thyself (dull Fate) and stand,  
And breath awhile, let not thy wilful hand  
Pursue an erring rage: for each new blow  
Would interrupt; and not increase our woe.  
Thou canst do nothing that may render us  
More fond of grief, or thee more tyrannous,  
Since room we want to vent our woes: our Eyes  
Bedew the Earth, whiles Clouds of thronging sighs  
Oppress the air; as if the world were all  
Too close, and lesser than his funeral.  
What man is yet so dull, so much to Fame  
And worth a stranger, as to ask what Name  
So great a loss doth bear: let him that wears  
An arted grief, and compliments with tears,  
(Fortunes and herald's Pageant) who for deeds  
On airs and titles of swollen greatness feeds;  
Admire such pomp, whiles I his soul, which stood  
So fair; that had some angels been as good,  
So many Spirits punished for their pride,  
(Backed on the Northern clouds) should never ride  
Down Taurus' mountain; when with rage ore'gone,  
They lead the vanguard of the Tempest on.  
But how can He be paralleled, whose birth  
Did claim such high pre-eminence of worth  
And happiness to come; no planets jars  
annoyed the healthful Influences, his stars  
Sang to his destinies, his precious thread  
With richest Art they spun, and promised  
It should more lasting prove. the GRACES flocked  
About him smiling, and his Cradle rocked,  
And giving each a kiss, did each conclude  
Rome's laws quite lost, and super stitions Rood.  
Sure He was here a little Heaven, which then  
(Touched by the hand of Death) he witnessed, when  
(Like a divine Intelligence) at strife  
With dull corruption, he expressed what life  
His mind enjoyed, which still his Deeds more young  
And perfect rendered, and his faith more strong.  
Whiles thus we saw him growing great and high,  
Who would have thought He had got leave to die.  
Or who is He that him alive did know,  
That would not think but he must still be so?  
Let those deluded Sophisters who take,  
Delight in wrangling, and do laughter make.  
The Argument of Reason, now agree  
To Truth corrected, and make grief to be  
Their best Demonstrance, which they most do show  
Who most in tears and lamentations flow.  
What Tongue can voice his Merits who was known  
To love our lives far better than his own.  
And though the Honours of his worth him sent,  
A close Committee to the Parliament.  
The man was public Good, and still his zeal  
Observed the King, and loved the commonweal.  
Nor did the Fate or Anger of the crown,  
Traverse his hopes, or beat his counsels down.  
But moving still (in what he had to do)  
He was our Patriot, and our Martyr too,  
But that more fully we may here declare  
Our plaints, we should lay by all tears which are  
Too weak for such a loss, we now should shake  
With a just sigh the centre, and awake  
The Spirits of Grief, that so our Accents may  
Make our love known, where e'er his purer ray,  
Where ere his star doth shine, if now he is  
Spreading his light where rugged Par●hasis  
Shines at the Northern Pole, or if he please,  
Rather to grace the Southern Hyades:  
Thou where the beauties of the Morn their clear  
Reflections bend on Ganges streams, or where  
When ere he in the Ocean dives, they run  
From Calpe Hill, who mourn the fainting Sun,  
Or wheresoever thou dost thy beams dispense,  
It is no sin to beg their Influence;  
While thus on us thou shalt thy beams employ,  
We more shall crave them; and we shall enjoy  
And mourn thee taken from us, and a flight  
Shall daily practise, till we reach that height  
Which thou hast gained; O why should Heaven ordain,  
That where they there do joy, we here should plain.  
Why should it urge to Good, yet from our view  
Steal the Example, and rejoice in't too,  
Grief is of kin to Heaven, and doth improve  
The glorious Consorts and blessed Quires above,  
And unto us of greater power doth seem,  
Since their joys move not us, our griefs help them;  
Heaven is the centre of our souls, the Grave  
Is of our bodies, this short life we have  
Doth of a middle Nature seem, yet sent  
In holy actions to be chiefly spent  
A true assurance that these Dusts shall rise  
(Awaked from death) above the lofty skies.  
This his whole life so much assured, so much  
Made it his business, that when Death did touch  
His willing Body, and the choir propense  
O● Heaven attended, to translate him hence  
The sacred words he spoke, did leave such high  
And rapt Impressions in the standers by,  
That they did seem to have themselves forgot,  
As if the virtue of their sounds had wrought  
Them more than mortal, and now dying, He  
Had clothed them all with Immortality.  
Sad House of Peers and Commons, whose desert  
Was here the chosen joy which crowned his heart,  
While now each word you speak his Elegies  
While from the soul of Love, your precious Eyes  
Rain down religious tears; He makes it known  
By these memorials, you best raise your own:  
Lodged in your breasts, He still doth live, and you  
Are both his Mourners, and his Ma●ble too;  
From you he seemeth to take half your Breath,  
And you from him to borrow half his Death,  
FINIS.   

Printed for Lawrence Chapman, 1643.