Hēsychia Christianou, or, A Christian's acquiescence in all the products of divine providence opened in a sermon, preached at Cottesbrook in Northampton-Shire, April the 16, 1644, at the interment of the Right Honourable, and eminently pious lady, the Lady Elizabeth Langham, wife to Sir James Langham Kt. / by Simon Ford ...

TO THE RIGHT WORSHIPFUL Sir JAMES LANGHAM, Upon the DEATH of his most Ver∣tuous, and Matchless LADY, The RIGHT HONOƲRABLE The LADY ELISABETH.

WHat clammy Stygian Fog! What Chaos hurl'd O're every Climat of this Little World! Dark Soul!—Benighted thus!—Not one faint Ray From the Bright Orb of Light, to let in Day! All Hung with Blacks!—No Phoebus to inspire A Lab'ring Phant'sy, with Po etick Fire!

Light up the Virgin-Tapers;—Let me see, By those pale Flames, to write an Elegy. "('Tis much to see how in a Tragick Part, "A wounded Eye will make a Bleeding Heart!) There lies the Noble Corps;-Stand nigh the Hearse, And ('spight of all the Muses) Mourn a Verse. What though their Springs be Frozen!-Grief shall be An Over-flowing Hippocrene to Me. I'le Bathe in Tears;-And still fetch New Supplies Of Sorrow, from the Torrents of my Eyes.

Shall Noblest Blood,—Shall Saint-like Piety, Shall Humble Greatness,—Virgin-Modesty; Shall Un-Exampl'd Goodness, Wisdome, Parts, Shall Learned Skill in Languages, and Arts, Shall Honour, Sweetness, Meekness, Beauty, Youth, Shall Spot-less Innocence,—and Naked Truth, Shall Pure Devotion,—Shall Seraphick Love, (Scarce Understood—but by blest souls above) Shall all the Vertues,—all the Graces lie Enshrin'd with this Great Lady!—And shall I Be un-concern'd at this great Funeral! First Self-Revenge, and Indignation shall (In spight of Fate) make me Poetical. I must not thus ungrateful be (Dear Sir) Though, all I write, but serves to lessen Hir. And (might I plead excuse for such Neglect) 'Tis:—Her Sublimity, and my Defect. My weak-nerv'd Eyes will not confront the Sun; Nor Leaden Heels his rapid course out-run; I ne're could stride the Ocean with a Span, Nor,—with my finews cramp Leviathan: No more is't possible for Human Praise, On That exalted Head, to plant the Bayes. This—is a Task for Angels,—and the Quire Of Essences, compos'd of Light and Fire. The great admir'd Apelles ne're could think To paint the Glaring Noon-day Sun with Ink. But,—May not This Bright Sun reflected be, By Muddy shallow pudles, to the Eye? 'Tis true indeed;—And such is That Reflex, From us, on This Great Mirrour of her Sex: Grand-Childe of Kings,—Branch of the Royal Stem, And—Orient Sparkle of the Diadem!

Great Huntingdons Faire Daughter, faire as Light, With all resplendent Beauties shining-bright, Daz'ling, with Beams of Glory, Human sight! 'Tis She,—Bright off-spring of Great Lueia, That scatter's Darkness,—and restores the Day, Where She appear's;—Nor can our Hemi-sphere Boast of a more refulgent Foemal Peer: 'Tis She,—The Dearest Consort (late) and Life To Him, the best deserving Such a Wife, The Noble Langham,—Whose Magnetique Soul Tremble's—and Hovers toward the Starry Pole, Where Shee's on high ascended,—Nor can be Yet pacify'd,—without Her Companie: 'Tis She,—the Great Eliza,—Hastings nam'd, Yet-more for Goodness, than for Greatness Fam'd: 'Tis She my Verse should Treat of—But in vain, I see, it is, to row against the Main; And therefore here,—Draw or'e a Veil I must Of Sable Silence,—and Weep o're Her Dust.

Haec serio, quamvis sero, Et Madens adhuc Lachrymis Genas, Conquestus est Ʋtrius{que} tum Nobilissimae Hastingiorum, tum Am∣plissimae Langhamiorum Familiae.

Cultor Devotissimus Ferd. Archer.