Lachrymæ musarum The tears of the muses : exprest in elegies / written by divers persons of nobility and worth upon the death of the most hopefull, Henry Lord Hastings ... ; collected and set forth by R.B.

To the Earl of HVNTINGDON, On the death of his Son.

My Lord,

COuld any Tears our Miseries remove, Redeem our Losses, or asswage our Love, Blest were you, though you paid for ev'ry Tear As rich a Jewel as the West can bear, And did, for ev'ry Sigh or Groan, dispense An od'rous Tempest of Masle Frankincense. But these impossible Wishes cannot finde A place; and are but scatter'd by the Winde. The Laws by which the World is govern'd, are As Indispensable as Regular. A perisht Flower can from that Central fire That lurks within its seed, next Spring aspire

Unto its former life and beauty: But Pityable Man, when once his eyes are shut, Is no more seen; but past recov'ry lost; A tender fleeting Form, a Bloodless Ghost. And, 'las, that God-like Youth that did amaze All Expectations, and faln Vertue raise Beyond her known Idea's He, in whom So many Noble Bloods had found their home; (Like some fam'd River, whose proud streams are great, Because that Other Rivers therein meet:) He that was onely like Himself; hath quit His Cage of Clay; I saw a paleness sit Upon his lips, and lurid darkness break And chase the Orient Purple of his cheek. I saw his Eyes seal'd to eternal Night, And all those Spices which Corruption fright Straw'd on his Waxen Limbs. He's gone, he's gone, And cruelly fled; and yet not he alone, But Courage, Sweetness, Innocence, and Truth, And all those sweet imbellishments of Youth; And all those full Perfections which engage Our praise, and cast a reverence on Age; And all those Arts, which by long toil acquir'd, Do make men either useful or admir'd:

All which he mastred, not as others, who By lame Degrees to a Full stature grow; He, at the first, was such: what other men From Climate, Humour, Temper, Custom gain, Nature endow'd him with: and though she please To d'all her works at leasure, by degrees; In this vast Miracle she her self surpast, And shew'd, at once, Perfection and Haste. Nor was there any thing in him to weed, To prune, or straighten: that Celestial Seed The Stars had shed into him, could not flow To Loosness, nor yet poorly under-grow. Nothing in him was crooked, lame, or flat, But Geometrically proportionate: Nor had he that which the severely Wise Deplore in Men, and would abolish; Vice. His was a Snowie soul, a pure Essence So clearly shining in'ts first Innocence, That He did that Opinion true declare, That Vice and Evil utter Nothings are. Nor was his Knowledge other: that pure Minde Was too Aethereal, and too refin'd, To know or common Paths, or common Bounds: His was like Lightning, which all Sight confounds,

And strikes so swiftly, that it seems to be Rather the object of the Memory. Thus did he oft his Tutors sense prevent, And happily surprise him in's intent: Thus he o'er-run all Science, (like a King Conquering by approach) as if that every Thing, Stript of its outward dross, and all refin'd Into a Form, lay open to his Minde: Or his pure Minde could suddenly disperse It self all ways, and th'row all Objects pierce. Yet whatsoe'er into his Minde did pass, Though writ in Water, did remain in Brass. Yet has this Genius made a sad depart, Maugre those strong Resistances of Art, ••hich the wise-pow'rful MAYERN, (who can give ••s much as poor Mortality can receive) Could, like a Father, make; maugre the Vows And holy Ardences of a melting Spouse; Maugre that strength of yeers which had not known His tender Cheeks blossom'd by their first Down; Maugre those Hopes which did so bravely feign That a great Race should spring from him again; A Race of Hastings's, whose High Deeds should raise New lustre to their Grand-sires Images.

But ('las) these Hopes are now meer Dreams become, And all those Glories buried in his Tomb. Too rigorous Fates, 'tis but an envions sport, To make those Lives that are most brave, most short; Or in destroying Heroes do you finde A way so oft to Massacre Mankinde? Or cannot milder Heaven one Influence throw, To make one thing Glorious and Lasting too? But there's a difference 'twixt Heav'n and Earth, And those things which from Each receive their birth: On Earth, the finest things fade soonest; there, Ill-boding Meteors the most short-liv'd are. And yet,(my Lord) since that Celestial fire That is shut up within us, doth aspire, Being once freed, like an ambitious Flame, Unto that Fountain, from whence first it came; With what a glorious Brightness is He gone, May we suppose, that so augustly shone Even th'row his Clay? What ravishing Transports now Seize on that Intellect? How doth it glow With fresh Illapses of the purest Light, Free from the Bondage of chill Sense and Night? How do the ghosts with admiration gaze On this great Shade! With what a proud amaze

Some look on what he was, whiles others ween, With emulous Sorrow, what he should have been! Whilst that his Love, exalted by its Loss, Does more sublim'd intuitive species toss; And, swoln above it self, serenely move In that great Centre of Light, Life and Love; Where I must lose him: For, can I express What He's, that am not He? But this confess, My Lord, that since you measure by his bliss Your Wishes, this his Apotheosis (Where part of you is Deifi'd) must call Your Acclamations, but no Grief at all. He's now at peace, disturb him not with Fears, Nor violate his Ashes with your Tears.

J. HALL.