AN ELEGY ON THE Most Reverend & Learned JAMES USHER L. Archbishop of Armagh, and Primate of Ireland; Who departed this life March 21. 1655. Written by JOHN QUARLES. April 29 LONDON, Printed by J. G. for John Stafford, in the George-yard near Fleet-bridge. 1656. To the truly virtuous and Right Honourable, The Countess of Peterborough. MADAM, I Am sorry that the sadness of the occasion enforces me to the boldness of presenting you with this elegious Poem; but, though I am confident the lines cannot merit your respect, yet I am certain the subject of them will procure your approbation. Madam, as you were favourably pleased to esteem him in his life, so I am confident you will respect him in his death; and (I hope) own the mean endeavours of Madam, Your true honourer John Quarles. To the READER. Reader, I Need not tell thee what a loss we have lately received, for it is writ in legible Characters of grief in every eye; but one thing I shall desire thee to take notice of; which is, that as he was one of an hundred, so he was the last of a hundred Archbishops of Armagh; and as he could not live in a worse age, so he could not die in a better time, to whose memory I have consecrated these few lines, desiring thee to read seriously, and judge favourably: Farewell. AN ELEGY ON The most Reverend & Learned JAMES USHER L. Archbishop of Armagh, & Primate of Ireland, who departed this life March 21. 1655. THen weep no more; see how his peaceful breast Rocked by the hand of Death, takes quiet rest. Disturb him not; but let him sweetly take A full repose, he hath been long awake; Tired with the toil of a most tedious day, He sought refreshment; seeking, found the way, The way to heaven, and being merry-hearted Shook hands with flesh & blood, & so departed; Nobly resolved; 'tis absolutely known He left a Dunghill, to embrace a Throne. Where now he sits, clothed with celestial pride. Reader, 'tis worse than death, to say, he died: He only slumbered from himself, and saw 'Twas late, (but ah too soon!) and that the Law Of Nature urged, he thought it too much wrong To his own good, to stay on earth too long; Time, and the Grave, make equal every thing, Here lies the Beggar, clothed like the King. But stay my Muse, Is't possible the Sun Can quit the firmament, unmissed, and run Beyond our sight? If so, Armagh may be Obliterated from posterity. But is he fled?— Then let the Nilus of each swelling eye o'er flow our Egypt; stay, rash quill, but why? Why should we woo forth tears? we had more need To weep in blood; the Church gins to bleed, And who can blame her? we must all confess She had few Heads before, but now one less: Alas poor Orphan! how is she oppressed To lose so dear a friend, and see the rest Lie drawing on; this sorrow sure will keep Her eye-lyds open: let her, let her weep Till Heaven shall please to contradict her fate, A weeping Church portends a bleeding State. What? are the Muses silent? are they all Deluged with tears? shall their Moecenae fall Without regard? I rather would believe They're now complotting jointly how to grieve With most advantage: sorrow often swells In tears, before it flows in words, and tells Her melancholy story; they that know The course of grief, will grant it to be so; Silence is now a crime, and I had rather (Like Heraclitus) weep and write together, Than rest in silence, for I have a debt Of gratitude to pay, which will not let My fancy rest contented till I have Laid down my grateful offering at his grave. That little education I dare own I had (I'm proud to say) from him alone; His grave advice would oftentimes distil Into my ears, and captivate my will: Th'example of his life did every day Afford me Lectures, I dare boldly say, Nay and affirm it with a joyful breath, Saint like he lived in Heaven, although on earth: I could believe that he had half forgot There was a world, because he minded not Inferior objects; nay, I dare say more He had quite forgot it, only for the poor, Who (whilst the fountain of his fortunes run) Did daily feel his charitable sun Refresh their wants; but when injurious fate Had built a Cross upon his whole estate, Then he, Heav'n-ravished soul, took speedy care To wish their welfare, and relief by prayer; I will not tire my Reader, to express His many troubles, nor the great distress He often knew; but this I'll say, that he Was so acquainted with all misery, That like th' out-daring rock, no storm could move His soul, being fenced (with heaven's proof armour) Love. As for his Learning, I must needs confess 'Tis better known than I can well express; Yet this I'll say, his unexampled life Was a continual study void of strife: He was a living Library, in whom A man might read things past, & things to come. What need we more? 'tis childish to repeat Each virtue, when he had them in the great; And they that wish to know him truly well Let them ask Rome, for Rome can sadly tell; Now Ireland weeps, England laments, but Rome Cries out, a Heretic deserves no tomb. Ye Prodigies of Faction, we can tell He's gone to Heaven with a miracle, His soul's above your prayers; be this his glory, He went to God, but missed your Purgatory; Then cease your smiles, convert them into tears For your own follies, let your hearty prayers More Heaven to pity, that at last ye may Enjoy the comfort of a lasting day, And so farewell— — Methinks I sadly hear The Muse's groan forth Elegies, and roar Their shrill-tuned voices, every highbred strain Does seem, if not a heart, to break a vein; Oh blame them not, for even thus they cried When their belov'd, their great Moecenae died; Great losses, cause great grief, yet let us say (Though God was pleased to take Armagh away) That he was just, because he did prolong His well-spent days, and lend him us so long. His mercy like the Phoenix, never dies, One passes by, to let the other rise: Thus having paid the tribute of my heart, I must (although unwillingly) depart. Farewell blessed soul, farewell, all I desire Is to shake souls, not hands, and so retire. His Epitaph. REader, these narrow confines do contain Rome's envy, Ireland's, loss, & England's gain. If true desert, a just reward might have, The largest Continent should be his Grave; But he's content, Reader, be this thy care, Think on our loss, depart, but leave a tear. The End. Two Books lately printed for John Stafford in George-yard near Fleet-bridge. 1. A Collection of SERMONS: 1. The best Employment. 2. A Gift for God alone. 3. The true Penitent. 4. The best Act of Oblivion. Together with NOTES upon JONAH. By Thomas Fuller. 2. DIVINE MEDITATIONS upon several subjects, etc. Written by John Quarles.