Augusta Lachrymen: A Funeral TEAR, TO THE MEMORY OF THE Worthy and Honoured Michael Godfrey, Esq LATE DEPUTY-GOVERNOUR of the ROYAL BANK of ENGLAND: Unfortunately Slain by a Cannon Ball, near His Majesty's Person, in the Trenches, at the Siege of NAMURE.  
By E. SETTLE.  
London: Printed, and are to be Sold by Rich. Baldwin, near the Oxford-Arms-Inn, in Warwick-Lane, 1695.   

Augusta Lachrymen.  
A FUNERAL TEAR To the MEMORY of the Worthy and Honoured Michael Godfrey, Esq etc.  

VIRTUE, that Plumes the Great, and Decks the Fair,  
Religion's Eldest Mate, and heavens Co-Heir!  
VIRTUE, that Perfumed Balm, whose Fragrant Breath  
At once both Softens LIFE, and Sweetens DEATH;  
At Thy Untimely, and Lamented Fall,  
No Common Tears must wait Thy FUNERAL.   

So our loved GODFREY fell! A more mourned Head  
Was never Lodged in HONOUR's Fatal Bed.  
Hard-fated Loyalty! Thou cam'st to Pay  
A bended Knee; but Prostrate Life must Lay.  
When the too keen Devourer, WAR, in all  
His Sulphur Fires, Bright Steel, or Sooty Ball,  
Doals round his Deaths 'mongst his own Slaughtered Sons,  
The Crimson Stream there but Half pitied, runs:  
But at this Thunder's too Ill guided Blast,  
War Blushed, and even Bellona stood aghast.  
The Dismal Tale to England's Mourning Shore,  
With broken Trumpets the Posting Tritons bore:  
The Wailing Nereids the sad Accents felt;  
Nor could their Briny Neptune less than melt.  
But, of Thy Mourners, Fair AVGVSTA's Chief;  
So Vast her Loss, and Interested Grief:  
Nor could her own sad Plaints, and murm'uring Cries,  
For her dear GODFREY's Funeral Rites suffice;  
Both from her Gresham, and her Floating Walls,  
A Brethren-Troop of all Wet Eyes she calls.  
One Trickling Tear too, from Britannia run;  
The Pious Sorrow for her Darling Son.  
Battle, with all his Bolts Commissioned Rage,  
That Theatre of Fate, that Bloody Stage,  
Acted, alas! but Half Thy Tragic Part:  
BELGIA's the Blow, but ALBION's is the Smart.   

But, hark! methinks Thy Fame's sweet Trumpetsounds  
That Tuneful Music o'er Thy Glorious Wounds:  
The Angry BOLT, by an Exchanging Stroke,  
The GODFREY for the Ransomed CAESAR took.  
Thy Interposing Breast to Catch the Blow  
Aimed at Great WILLIAM's Life, and EVROPE's too.  
Whilst Thou the Tutelar Bar to That dire Doom,  
Champion of Britain, Fence of Christendom,  
Thus Fallen; Oh! let that Single Fame out-pride  
A Mausoloeum, or a Pyramid.  
Since Thou must Bleed; so Bleed! Nor is it more,  
Than Thy Great Predecessor did Before:  
Whose Martyrdom Thy equal Glory Sings;  
The GODFREY's Race even born the Shield of Kings!   

But, at the Shock of this Lamented Blow,  
(So deep the Channels from our Sorrows flow;)  
Yet still, if possible, even to Rebate  
A little the keen Edge of Thy Hard Fate;  
From Filial Eyes no streaming Currents glide,  
Nor Sabled Widow swells the Briny Tide:  
Some Mercy, even in Cruelty, there shined,  
And Thy too angry Stars were yet so Kind,  
At least, those Drowning Streams of Grief to save:  
No Portia, nor Cornelia, waits Thy Grave.   

What, tho' no children's Cries! Beneath Thee none!  
Enough that All, Around, Thy Loss bemoan!  
Enough Thy Country is a Mourner here!  
Enough the Pitying NASSAV drops a Tear!  
Enough!— Too much, what thy sad PARENT bears!  
The Fountain of thy LIFE, the Fountain of thy TEARS!  
Nay, after all Thy Hearses Sable Train,  
And our soft trickling Drops, th' Effeminate Rain,  
Bedews th' Inexorable Grave in vain:  
Beyond those Sorrow's Pompous Cavalcade,  
Thou hast those Funeral Rites yet still unpaid,  
That deeper Mourning die; A warm, warm Flood  
Of Nobler Crimson Currents, Tears of Blood:  
Streams, which Great WILLIAM's Conquering Vengeance pours,  
And Fair BRITANNIA's Glorious Thunder showers:  
Whilst Trembling Gallia's Wounded Sides, all gored  
By her Bold Hunter's keen pursuing Sword;  
Her flowing Gore a Tribute to Thy Urn,  
Thy very Enemies Thy Loss shall Mourn.   

So Mourned, and, Oh! so Lost! that Worth, where shined  
The Loveliest Graces, that adorn Mankind!  
For, Oh! How vast a Mass enriched that MIND!   

TRUST, and Fair FAITH were so entirely Thine,  
Thy BREAST the Quarry to TRUTH's Golden Mine.  
Didst Thou but PROMISE, 'twas Thy Stamp & Seal;  
Like Destiny, admitted no Repeal:  
Thy WORD Thy Honour, Bond, and Oracle.   

Could  LEAGUES or OATHS but half so bind;  
With half Thy TRUTH the sullied Lilies shined,  
Long, long had EVROPE's Bloody Flag been Furl'd,  
And Halcyon Peace had Brooded o'er the WORLD.  
No Foreign Bolts had all these Sorrows cost:  
War's Thunder had been Hush; Nor GODFREY Lost.  
How Rich the Furniture t' a Private Breast?  
What Wealth had even One Little World Possessed?  
Oh! might the Greater Globe Thy Patterned Honour rule;  
How Courts, States, Crowns, might Learn, even from Thy City-School.   

Faith, th' Atlas of the World, Society,  
Converse, and Commerce; even Humanity  
Itself, our whole Great ALL's upheld by THEE.  
If an Inviolate WORD is that Rich Mine;  
Oh, GODFREY! were all Breasts but filled like Thine!  
Nay, would our Noblest Lips but Brach like Thee,  
Her Face even GREATNESS, in Thy Mirror, see:  
No Unpaid Scarlet then, in Blushes died;  
No City Groans would shade the Gay Court Pride:  
In what True State would English Grandeur move?  
The Knees Below bent to the Heads Above!  
The Byrse the Honoured Palace would Caress;  
And the Poor Plough, the Gaudy Chariot Bless.  
TRUTH, that Fair Gem in GODFREY's Casket set,  
That even his Furs might shame the Coronet.  
Did Thy FRANK SOUL in every Bosom reign,  
Falsehood and Fraud, with all their Vizard Train;  
Nay, that Court-Shadow, Flattery, vanished quite;  
heavens! What a Fog would Clear before such Light?   

Nor did Thy MORAL Glories only shine.  
An equal Homager to Truth DIVINE,  
More Faithful Knee our Altars ne'er could Grace,  
Descended from Religion's 
* Sir Edm. Godfrey.  CHAMPION-RACE.  
And where that Glorious MARTYR's Image reigns,  
(Enriched both by His VIRTUES, and His VEINS)  
Well might th' Hereditary Beams inspire,  
Enlightened by such Transmigrated Fire.   

Let Cloyst'rers vainly boast, Religion dwells  
In Solitary Grotts, and Lonely Cells;  
Born only for Themselves, think HEAVEN to please;  
The Drones of Life, in all the Rust of Ease.  
No such dull Wreaths Thy Temples did adorn;  
GODFREY was ne'er to Lazy Virtues born.  
BUS'INESS, Sloths Shame, Life's Honourable Toil,  
And Industry's fair Growth, His Harvest Pile;  
Far as Seas roll, or Canvas Wings can fly,  
NATURE his Garden, EARTH his Granary;  
Like th' Hybla Forager; from each kind Flower  
To his Rich Hive the laded Sweets he bore:  
Or like the more famed Bird of the Proud East,  
In a Warm Sun Built his own Spicy Nest.  
Nor did His Soaring SOUL less Active move;  
Not Clogged Below, to check her Flight Above:  
No; His Poised CARE held the great Balance even  
Betwixt the Busy World, and Studied Heaven.  
Nay, the more Worldly Blessings that he reaped,  
But Plumed and Winged his PIETY: As They heaped,  
He looked up to the Source from whence They flowed;  
And but Paid Heaven the more, the more He Owed.   

INDUSTRY even came in before the Plough,  
 Man the Fig-Leaves wore, or Sweeting Brow:  
And our Great Sire, by the CREATOR graced,  
In His Untilled, Unforfeit EDEN placed:  
In his Rich Soil the Lord of Humane Kind,  
Had still some Charge, some Trust, some Task, assigned;  
In his High Seat held not that Sluggish Bliss,  
Either to Lull or Bask, tho' even in Paradise.   

If INDUSTRY did to Thy Portion fall,  
Whether Thy Fate, Thy Chance, Thy Choice, or All;  
That Penetrating WIT, DEPTH so Profound,  
JUDGEMENT so Quick, INTEGRITY so Sound;  
By Nature Formed and Stamped for Charge and Trust,  
Thy Hand was Fitted, and Thy Stars were Just.  
Thus all the Active Posts our GODFREY held,  
No more than His Creation-Work fulfilled.  
Fatiegue was but Thy Play; and Business more  
The Plume Thy Brow, than Load Thy Shoulders wore.  
His Globe Thy Atlas with that Ease sustained,  
And so all Sprightly Thy Minerva reigned;  
That Genius and Dispatch, as could go through  
At once the Martha's Task, and Mary's too.   

Thus at Thy 
* Royal Bank.  Helm of GOLD, Thy Short-lived Pride,  
No Abler, Trustier PILOT Hand could Guide:  
That fair Foundation ROYAL, that (if my  
Too poor Propheticks may dare Speak so high)  
Beyond her yet too Narrow Lease, shall stand,  
With its Vnshaken Head, till Time's last Sand.  
Whose Circulating Warmth shall never cease,  
At once the Nerves of WAR, and Veins of PEACE;  
Commerce, Arts, Arms, all her own fair Increase.  
A TREASURY, from whose Diffusive Mine  
Our Glebe shall Fatten, and our THRONE shall Shine.   

This Honoured Sphere of Constellated WORTH,  
Saw her Loved GODFREY's smiling Morn set forth,  
And thy sad Setting too— And here, in all  
The Pitying Dew does at that Setting fall,  
From Thy kind Pylades, Thy 
† Sir Will. Scowen.  FRIEND and MATE,  
The Tend rest, 
* Being within Two Yards of the Fatal Shot.  Nearest WITNESS of Thy Fate,  
Is the First Tribute paid. And, Oh! a more  
Than Common Pity, LOVE here swells the Shower;  
That Love, and Faithful Ami'ty, that supplies  
At once his o'er charged Breast, and flowing Eyes.  
True Mourner, Friend; nay, t' add one Title more,  
Thy Trust, Worth, Virtues, all, True SUCCESSOR;  
Thy Triple HEIR.— So a Fair Rose full grown,  
Off from the Stalk by some rude Tempest blown;  
The next Twin- Blossom, the next Morning-Dawn,  
Opened, Spread, and Dressed in the same Crimson Lawn;  
On the same Branch a New fair Pendant Jem,  
With the same Sweets new decks the Widowed Stem.   

Well, Patriot GODFREY, since it is Decreed,  
Such Public MERIT must Untimely Bleed;  
The Great DISPENSER for Thy Doom declares,  
And our Just Grief shall Pay Thee all it Dares:  
Hard-fettered Sorrow! Our poor Tongue-tied Woe  
May Wayl, but must not Murmur at the Blow.   

How War, more Blind than Love, his Wounds does give!  
So Called to Die, what most Deserved to Live!  
what's Battle, but the Lottery of Fame?  
The Pushing Warrior plays that  Game,  
And only Sets a Life, to Win a Name.  
War is the Mart of Honour, to supply  
Th' Unfurnished Brow; whilst at a Price so High,  
'Tis they that Want it, thither come to Buy.  
Let Meaner Worth, then, seek out Martial Fields,  
To Raise that GLORY Blood and Danger builds.  
HONOUR, Alas! was all Thy Own before;  
Even Laurels to Thy Brow could scarce add more.  
Thy Brighter Olave Chaplet shined so Fair,  
Renown Thou thither Brought'st, not Soughtst it there.   

And now, for the Last Sweets to strew Thy Tomb;  
Sweets, that in th' Herauld's Garden ne'er could Bloom:  
A Garland of those Flowers, which all his Field  
Of poorer Or, nor Argent, ne'er could yield.  
Let Prouder GREATNESS be with Scutcheons blest;  
And glory in a Title, and a Crest:  
Honours, Wealth, Dignities, their narrower Pride  
A small Succession, and few Heirs, divide.  
They who that Ampler Patrimony claim,  
A Virtuous Memory, and a Good Name;  
'Tis They die truly Rich: They leave behind  
A Leg'acy to no less than all Mankind.   
FINIS.