AN ELEGY ON That famous ORACLE of LAW, and unbiass'd Dispenser of JUSTICE, the most Learned and no less Religious S R Matthew Hale, KT. The late LORD Chief Justice of ENGLAND, Who departed this Life on Christmas-day last, at his House in Atherly in Gloucestershire.  

GReat HALE a fortnight Dead! and none Proclaim  
Our Loss, in strains Immortal as his Name?  
Has the late Frost Cramped all the Wits? or Vice  
Congealed their Brains with a more fatal Ice?  
Shall each small Miss usurp the Muse's Arms,  
And fill the Town with painted Celia's Charms?  
Shall every Silken Fop, and trivial Hearse  
Be double-daubed with Mercenary Verse;  
And such a Patriot unregarded die  
Without the Tribute of an Elegy?  
Ungrateful Age! though Art pretend not to it  
Just Indignation sure may make a Poet;  
Nor need we pray in Aid of Fancy here  
Where loftiest Praise does sober Truth appear;  
For whosoever indeed would do HALE Right  
Must History, and not a Poem, write;  
He must draw Cato, Solon, Cicero,  
The Ancient Sages and the Modern too;  
He must Limn Spirits never tired, such parts  
As held in Fee th'whole Magazine of Arts;  
He that would search all Glories of the Gown  
And Steps of all raised Servants of the Crown  
Shall ne'er find one Amongst that Glittering Store  
Whom Fortune aided less, or Virtue more;   

Who shall discover now those flourished Sleights  
Which Lawyers offer for pretended Rights?  
Who shall, like Virgo in the Zodiac, fit  
Between bold Leo and Just Libra sit;  
Who at first opening of a Cause shall spy  
The Knot, And that not Cut, but well untie?  
Who can dispatch so much, so well, so free  
From Fear, from Favour, Slain or Bribery;  
You might the Sun out o'th' Ecleptick hurl  
Unhinge from Nature's Poles the tottering World;  
Stop Primum Mobile, sooner than wrest  
Or Divorce Justice from his Candid Breast;  
Trace his Beginning, when at first his Good  
In others Evil best was understood,  
When being the Strangers help, The Poor man's aid  
His Just defences made th' unjust afraid;  
Th' unfriended's Patron, The oppressed's shield,  
The Fort of Truth untaught by Charms to yield,  
Such was his Progress that Integrity  
And Skill (even then) became Authority;  
And Clients strove in Question of the Laws  
More for his Patronage, than for their Cause,  
Such too at last his Stand, whilst he did deal  
Desired Justice to the Public Weal;  

Through all the Three High Courts of Common Law  
We saw him loud Applause and Wonder draw,  
The Good to Cherish and the Bad to Awe   
Nor were his Courts alone, but Readins where,  
The Bar was Thronged as much to Learn, as Hear:  
Council he did but Rectify, not By't;  
Nor were men Checked, or Jested from their Right,  
So Grave! so mild his Judgements did appear,  
As raised at once the Guiltless Love and Fear;  
Nor was his life less Glorious, Bright and Clean  
In his Recess, than on the public Scene;  
Surviving not his Honours though his place,  
He left the Bench in Favour, not Disgrace;  
His King and Country served, a wise Retreat,  
To serve his God, renders his Course Complete;  
So like the Lamp of Heaven he possessed  
The greatest Lustre, hastening to his west;  
Those few remaining Sands were wholly Given,  
Peace to promote on Earth, Glory to Heaven;  
Though Envy oft on Virtue doth attend,  
He forced Envy's self to be his friend;  

Reading his works, next Age may doubt (Each Line  
With such bright rays of Piety doth shine)  
Whether he was more Lawyer or Divine;   
After the vast Turmoils of many years,  
Unwearied Studies, and Consuming Cares.  
He now is gone, Mounted on Angels wings,  
To the Tribunal of the King of Kings;  
Where Throned in Bliss, has changed his Scarlet Gown  
For th' long white Robe, and an eternal Crown.    

EPITAPH.  

WEep Reader! weep for if we see  
Thy Fountains dry, No man well be  
So kind to shed a Tear for Thee;   

An upright Judges sacred Dust,  
Committed to this Tombstones Trust;  
Expects the Rising of the Just.   

Join Learned Cook, and Littleton,  
And Twice Twelve more, when all is done,  
You scarce express this Sngle one.   

Nay, If you'll ransack Earth and Skies  
For all that worth which good men prize,  
Look no further— Here it lies.   

Then let us leave him to his Urn,  
And hope when Enoch shall return,  
To see his LIKE,— But till then Mourn.   

Licenced,  
Roger L'estrange, January 8th, 1677.   
FINIS.   

London, Printed for Ben. Harris, in Sweethings-Ally, by the Royal Exchange, 1677.