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.

POSTSCRIPT.

ELEGIES, Written by

• M. Andrew Marvel.
• M. M. N.
• M. Ioannes Harmarus.
• Iohannes Dryden.
• Cyrillus Wyche▪
• Edw. Campion.
• Tho. Adams.
• M. Radulphus Mountague▪

Upon the death of the Lord HASTINGS.

GO, intercept some Fountain in the Vein, Whose Virgin-Source yet never steept the Plain. Hastings is dead, and we must finde a Store Of Tears untoucht, and never wept before. Go, stand betwixt the Morning and the Flowers; And, ere they fall, arrest the early Showers. Hastings is dead; and we, disconsolate, With early Tears must mourn his early Fate. Alas, his Vertues did his Death presage: Needs must he die, that doth out-run his Age. The Phlegmatick and Slowe prolongs his day, And on Times Wheel sticks like a Remora. What man is he, that hath not Heaven beguil'd, And is not thence mistaken for a Childe? While those of growth more sudden, and more bold, Are hurried hence, as if already old. For, there above, They number not as here, But weigh to Man the Geometrick yeer.

Had he but at this Measure still increast, And on the Tree of Life once made a Feast, As that of Knowledge; what Loves had he given To Earth, and then what Jealousies to Heaven! But 't is a Maxime of that State, That none, Lest He become like Them, taste more then one. Therefore the Democratick Stars did rise, And all that Worth from hence did Ostracize. Yet as some Prince, that, for State-Jealousie, Secures his neerest and most lov'd Ally; His Thought with richest Triumphs entertains, And in the choicest Pleasures charms his Pains: So he, not banisht hence, but there confin'd, There better recreates his active Minde. Before the Chrystal Palace where he dwells, The armed Angels hold their Carouzels; And underneath, he views the Turnaments Of all these Sublunary Elements. But most he doth th' Eternal Book behold, On which the happie Names do stand enroll'd; And gladly there can all his Kinred claim, But most rejoyces at his Mothers name. The gods themselves cannot their Joy conceal, But draw their Veils, and their pure Beams reveal:

Onely they drooping Hymeneus note, Who for sad Purple, tears his Saffron- coat; And trails his Torches th'row the Starry Hall Reversed, at his Darlings Funeral. And Aesculapius, who, asham'd and stern, Himself at once condemneth, and Mayern; Like some sad Chymist, who, prepar'd to reap The Golden Harvest, sees his Glasses leap. For, how Immortal must their Race have stood, Had Mayern once been mixt with Hastings blood! How Sweet and Verdant would these Lawrels be, Had they been planted on that Balsam-tree! But what could he, good man, although he bruis'd All Herbs, and them a thousand ways infus'd? All he had try'd, but all in vain, he saw, And wept, as we, without Redress or Law. For Man (alas) is but the Heavens sport; And Art indeed is Long, but Life is Short.

ANDREW MARVEL.

On the untimely death of the Lord HASTINGS, Son to the Earl of HUNTINGDON.

IT is decreed, we must be drain'd (I see) Down to the dregs of a Democracie: Death's i' the Plot, and in his drunken mood Swills none, of late, but streams of Noble Blood▪ Was't not enough the Hatchet did hew down Those well-grown Oaks, and Pillars of the Crown, But that the tender Sapling too must fall Thus, to inhanse the Kingdoms Funeral? Ye Widow'd Graces, and ye Muses too, Bring your Perfumes; with Tears and Flowers bestrew This sacred Temple, where ye once did sit Crowned with all the pomp of Youth and Wit. 'Tis HASTINGS, he that promis'd to appear What Strafford, Falkland, and brave Capel were; Whose pregnant Brain spake a descent from Iove, And Shape Celestial, from the Queen of Love;

So that, to charm the World, he match'd the grace Of Nestors Wisdom with Adonis Face. The Nurse Minerva boasts how this her son Suck'd dry the Poets and their Helicon; With what a nimble pace he posted ore The fields of Phant'sie, rifled all her Store, Cropt ev'ry Flow'r and Tulip which did grow, To make a Garland for his own fair Brow; That young Apollo never wan more Praise, When he pursu'd his Love, and catcht the Bays. This but the Bud, these but the Blossoms were; The Fruit grew ripe in Studies more severe, Where he seem'd born to master and control Both the Cecropian and the Roman School, Big with designe t' usurp the Chair of Wit From Tully, and depose the Stagirit. Adde next to these, the Grace which did belong T' unlock those Treasures with a Golden tongue; A Tongue so rarely furnisht, as might boast It self of kin to those at Pentecost; And in their proper Languages begun To court the Rising and the Setting Sun; Fit to reform our own degen'rous Sprites, And plant the world with Loyal Proselytes.

Thus ripen'd, (see!) this rare Example stood No less ennobled in Desert then Blood; Whilst others, swoln high with an empty Name, Leave nothing but their Lusts and Sins to Fame: But if you'll Noble be indeed, your yeers Improve like him, strive to become his Peers. How joy'd, (think you) the Noble Huntingdon, To be thus copi'd in so brave a Son! How did he bless, admire, and smile, to see This young Ascanius of his Family, As did Aeneas that his onely Joy, The precious Relique of confounded Troy! What Fruits he reckon'd would the Harvest bring, After so sweet and so serene a Spring! How fair an Issue should the Boy beget, Good as their Sire, and as their Grandsires Great, Whose Vertues claim this Title to their Line, Of all the British Heroes most Divine.

No marvel then the famous Mayern strove To place his Childe where he had fixt his Love, Melting the Indies, to unite in one His Onely Daughter with this onely Son; That so his longing Soul might once behold This Jewel set within his Ring of Gold.

The old man woo'd, as if he meant to prove An earnest Rival in his daughters love; Gave Hymen speedy Orders to prepare The Triumphs due unto this harmless War; Invited all the gods of Mirth and Wine, That, as Themselves, the Feast might be Divine: Venus her Trinkets sent, without delay, To dress ten thousand Cupids for the day: The Duellists with plighted hands did greet, And promis'd quick within the Lists to meet; The lustre of whose mutual Smiles and Rays, Foretold a Sunshine of auspicious days. But Oh! the Scene is alter'd; some cross Star Darts down Infection th'row the Hemisphear: Those eyes which Hymen hop'd should light his Torch, Aethereal flames of Fevers now do scorch, And envious Pimples too dig Graves apace, To bury all the Glories of his face: The Boy-god sighing, soon unbends his Bowe, And, with his Mother, lies extinct belowe, In vain expecting Succour, while the Race Of Stygian Monsters seize upon the place; Where they their Revels keep, mocking the skill Of best Physitians, and then rage their fill,

Till ugly Death his dire Magnetick Dart Shot th'row the Veins, to hit his tender Heart, Ruined the Fort, and then snatch'd the Prize Due to the conquest of his Ladies eyes. The onely Legacies he left us, are, Grief to his Friends; and to the World, Despair▪

So when fair Phoebus 'gins to gild the Morn, Some sullen Cloud, within a moment born, Sends Hell and Darkness th'row the air to flie, And all with Mourning hangs the lofty Skie.

M. N.

De honoratissimo Juvene, Dom. HENRICO HASTINGS, Linguis, Artibus, & Virtutibus excultissimo,

Comitis HUNTINGDONIAE Filio Unico; qui undevicesimum Aetatis suae annum agens, diem obiit, ma∣gno cum Literarum juxtà & Literatorum detrimento.

PEgasus excussit fontem unum e Vertice montis; Laxat at hìc fontes singula Musa duos. Semper ut è teneris lacrymae Labuntur ocellis, Sic LACRYMAE Musis Musica semper erit.

Apostrophe ad defunctum. Qui Musas omnes in Te complexus es uno, Musa Tibi non est quae fleat una satis.

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IOANNES HARMARVS, Oxoniensis. 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉, & C. W. M. moerens posuit.

Upon the death of the Lord HASTINGS.

MUst Noble Hastings Immaturely die, (The Honour of his ancient Family?) Beauty and Learning thus together meet, To bring a Winding for a Wedding-sheet? Must Vertue prove Death's Harbinger? Must She, With him expiring, feel Mortality? Is Death (Sin's wages) Grace's now? shall Art Make us more Learned, onely to depart? If Merit be Disease, if Vertue Death; To be Good, Not to be; who'd then bequeath Himself to Discipline? Who'd not esteem Labour a Crime, Study Self-murther deem? Our Noble Youth now have pretence to be Dunces securely, Ign'rant healthfully. Rare Linguist! whose Worth speaks it self, whose Praise, Though not his Own, all Tongues Besides do raise: Then Whom, Great Alexander may seem Less; Who conquer'd Men, but not their Languages.

In his mouth Nations speak; his Tongue might be Interpreter to Greece, France, Italy. His native Soyl was the Four parts o' th' Earth; All Europe was too narrow for his Birth. A young Apostle; and (with rev'rence may I speak 'it) inspir'd with gift of Tongues, as They. Nature gave him, a Childe, what Men in vain Oft strive, by Art though further'd, to obtain. His Body was an Orb, his sublime Soul Did move on Vertue's and on Learning's Pole: Whose Reg'lar Motions better to our view, Then Archimedes Sphere, the Heavens did shew. Graces and Vertues, Languages and Arts, Beauty and Learning, fill'd up all the parts. Heav'ns Gifts, which do, like falling Stars, appear Scatter'd in Others; all, as in their Sphear, Were fix'd and conglobate in's Soul; and thence Shone th'row his Body, with sweet Influence; Letting their Glories so on each Limb fall, The whole Frame render'd was Celestial. Come, learned Ptolomy, and trial make, If thou this Hero's Altitude canst take; But that transcends thy skill; thrice happie all▪ Could we but prove thus Astronomical.

Liv'd Tycho now, struck with this Ray, (which shone More bright i' th' Morn, then others beam at Noon) He'd take his Astrolabe, and seek out here What new Star 't was did gild our Hemisphere. Replenish'd then with such rare Gifts as these, Where was room left for such a Foul Disease? The Nations sin hath drawn that Veil, which shrouds Our Day-spring in so sad benighting Clouds. Heaven would no longer trust its Pledge; but thus Recall'd it; rapt its Ganymede from us. Was there no milder way but the Small Pox, The very Filth'ness of Pandora's Box? So many Spots, like naeves, our Venus soil? One Jewel set off with so many a Foil? Blisters with pride swell'd, which th'row's flesh did sprout Like Rose-buds, stuck i' th' Lily-skin about. Each little Pimple had a Tear in it, To wail the fault its rising did commit: Who, Rebel-like, with their own Lord at strife, Thus made an Insurrection 'gainst his Life. Or were these Gems sent to adorn his Skin, The Cab'net of a richer Soul within? No Comet need foretel his Change drew on, Whose Corps might seem a Constellation.

O had he di'd of old, how great a strife Had been, who from his Death should draw their Life? Who should, by one rich draught, become what ere Seneca, Cato, Numa, Caesar, were: Learn'd, Vertuous, Pious, Great; and have by this An universal Metempsuchosis. Must all these ag'd Sires in one Funeral Expire? All die in one so young, so small? Who, had he liv'd his life out, his great Fame Had swoln 'bove any Greek or Romane Name. But hasty Winter, with one blast, hath brought The hopes of Autumn, Summer, Spring, to nought. Thus fades the Oak i' th' sprig, i' th' blade the Corn; Thus, without Young, this Phoenix dies, new born. Must then old three-legg'd gray-beards with their Gout, Catarrhs, Rheums, Aches, live three Ages out? Times Offal, onely fit for th' Hospital, Or t' hang an Antiquaries room withal; Must Drunkards, Lechers, spent with Sinning, live With such helps as Broths, Possits, Physick give? None live, but such as should die? Shall we meet With none but Ghostly Fathers in the Street? Grief makes me rail; Sorrow will force its way; And, Show'rs of Tears, Tempestuous Sighs best lay.

The Tongue may fail; but over-flowing Eyes Will weep out lasting streams of Elegies.

But thou, O Virgin-Widow, left a••••ne, Now thy belov'd, heaven-ravisht Spouse is gone, (Whose skilful Sire in vain strove to apply Med'cines, when thy Balm was no Remedy) With greater then Platonick love, O wed His Soul, though not his Body, to thy Bed: Let that make thee a Mother; bring thou forth Th' Idea's of his Vertue, Knowledge, Worth; Transcribe th' Original in new Copies; give Hastings o' th' better part: so shall he live In's Nobler Half; and the great Grandsire be Of an Heroick Divine Progenie: An Issue, which••t' Eternity shall last, Yet but th' Irradiations which he cast. Erect no Mausolaeums: for his best Monument is his Spouses Marble brest.

JOHANNES DRYDEN, Scholae Westm. Alumnus.

In Obitum Honoratissimi Viri, Domini HENRICI HASTINGS.

INcipe lugubris, Musa incipe nostra, querelas; Contineat Lachrymas nec Cytherea suas: Excidit amplexu Mus••rum abreptus Alumnus; Pulchrior Idalio Sponsus Adone perit▪ Cum celebranda forent lae••o connubia cantu, Ferres accensas túque Hymenaee faces: Pronuba praebebant piceas funalia flammas; Iunonis subiit tunc Libitina vices. Vertitur in moestum genialis sponda feretrum; Fit vespillo, priùs qui Paranymphus erat. Flent omnes tristíque irrorant imbre cadaver; Et superat morbi lachryma fusa notas. Pro virtute tuâ si vota superstite dentur, Victima si pro te sospite digna cadat;

Vt Pietas, Virtus, Linguaeque, Artesque supersint, Nec pereat formae, aut Nobilitatis honos; Qui pro communi renuit se tradere Fato, Non tibi, sed Patriae denegat officium. Occidis exemplar, generosae & norma juventae; Insequitur morum magna ruina tuam. Vita tibi dempta est, sed nobis Regula vitae: Tecum Nobilitas semisepulta jacet. Graecia, Roma, tuam excoluit (quotae Natio!) Linguam: Qui totum excoleret te, minor orbis erit. Tantus es, ut coeli tumulandus in orbibus esses; Non satis in Tumulum terra Britanna patet. At quid amator eras? Musarum castra sequenti Permansi•• puro sanguine sana cutis. Mox ubi pectus amor, Morbilli corpus adurunt: Tabe omni costas fortiùs urit amor. Protegis arte tuâ cultores Phoebe; dolendum est Arte quod in Medicâ nil Cytherea potest. Sponsa parata, velut pulchrae virtutis Idaea, Interiore animam concremat igne tuam. I procul hinc conjux, auges incendia fletu, Vulnerat ex oculis ignea gutta tuu. Est toleranda mihi duri inclementia morbi; Virtus, aut facies non toleranda tua est.

Exturget mihi Mens, & laxat Corporis arcta Vincula, in amplexus non satis ampla tuos: Extendítque cutem, partésque exporrigit omnes, Ruptá;que mille aditus per sua membra parat. Exit Sponsi anima, i••gremium Sponsaeque recepta est: Non duo, jam nexi mentibus unus erunt. Totus amor, totus nunc Spiritus, I pete coelos: Non Sponsus, Christi sis modo Spousa tui.

CYRILLUS WYCHE, Scholae Westm. Alumnus.

PVllâ hâc in Vrnâ saeculi Genius sui Reclinat augustum caput: Natura multâ dote quem ditaverat, Hominúmque coetu exemerat. Mortalitatem nisi fateretur suam, Intelligentiam putes. Desideratiùs quis unquam vixerit, Poterítve flebiliùs mori? Meditentur alii busta, suspendant Tholos, Titulis onusti grandibus:

Quorum superstes fama Marmoribus manet Tribuenda non meritis suis. Non poscit Hastings Funeris pompam hanc sui; Sibi non Sepulchra postulat, Epitaphiúmve, quod recenseret quibus Sit ortus è Penatibus. Pietate, Factis, Arte, Linguis Inclytus Stat Ipse Monumentum sibi.

EDW. CAMPION, Scholae Westm. Alumnus.

ARtibus, & Linguis, & Sanguine Nobilis Heros, Vrnula tot dotes non capit unae tuas. Vix capiti locus est; in coelis quaere sepulchrum: Terra negat, Tumulo non satis ampla tuo. Scribenti titulos mihi longa excrescit Honorum Pagina; & inceptis grandior illa meis. Nescimus Patriam, tua si modò lingua loquatur: Esse suam credit Graecia, Roma suam. Non unus moreris, funus non plangimus unum; Sed strages hominum, sed 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉 obis.

Fama superjectam Coelo dignissima te••ram Rumpit, & ad similes te vehit alta deos. Pallas virtutes, artes donavit Apollo; Mors tamen has, ill as invidiosa rapit. Parca parat sua tela, parat sua tela Cupido; Comburit corpus pustula, pectus amor. Festinat Citherea suas accendere taedas: Accendit taedas invi a Parca suas. Exornat Citherea torum, Libitina Sepulchrum; Illa suum sternit floribus, illa suum. Laberis ex Thalamo in Tumulum; mirabile Spectrum Visus es, & Sponsae non procus esse tuae. Sponsa tuam mirata luem, restinguere vulnus Conatur lachrymis; sed magis ardet amor. Impatiens morbi ruit in contagia; cura Tanta Tui est, ut sit nulla relicta Sui. Sit licet atra lues, & nil nisi pustula corpus, Ibit in ampexus (vel moritura) tuos: Et placuere tui magis exanthemata vultûs, Quàm flores propriis qui rubuere genis. Cum Sponsâ mea Musa tuâ te plangit amátque, Cum linguis muta est sed mea Musae tuis.

THO. ADAMS, Scholae Westm. Alumnus.

NObilium pueris bullae olim insignia; Morbi Nos insignivit plurima bulla notis. Me nuper languente, infecit pustula corpus; Iam mentem affecit, Te moriente, meam. Morbi iterum videor tecum sentire dolores: Quàm leve ferre meos, quàm grave ferre tuos! Partior ipse tui languores corporis▪ O si Virtutes animae partiar ipse Tuae!

RADVLPHVS MOVNTAGVE, EDWARDI MOUNTAGUE Baro∣nis de Boughton Filius natu minor, ex Scholà Westmonast.

FINIS.