An elegie on the Most Reverend & Learned James Usher L. Archbishop of Armagh and Primate of Ireland; Who departed this life March 21. 1655. Written by John Quarles |
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 | An elegie on the Most Reverend & Learned James Usher L. Archbishop of Armagh |  |
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AN ELEGIE ON The most Reverend & Learned JAMES USHER
L. Archbishop of Armagh, & Primate of Ireland, who departed this life March 21. 1655.
Then weep no more; see how his peacefull brestRock't by the hand of Death, takes quiet rest.
Disturb him not; but let him sweetly take
A full repose, he hath been long awake;
Tyr'd with the toyle of a most tedious day,
He sought refreshment; seeking, found the way,
The way to heaven, and being merry-hearted
Shook hands with flesh & blood, & so departed;
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He left a Dunghill, to imbrace a Throne,
Where now he sits, cloath'd with celestial pride.
Reader, 'tis worse than death, to say, he dy'd:
He onely slumbred from himself, and saw
'Twas late, (but ah too soon!) and that the Law
Of Nature urg'd, he thought it too much wrong
To his own good, to stay on earth too long;
Time, and the Grave, make equall every thing,
Here lyes the Begger, cloathed like the King.
But stay my Muse, Is't possible the Sun
Can quit the firmament, unmiss'd, and run
Beyond our sight? If so, Armagh may be
Obliterated from posterity.
But is he fled?—
Then let the Nylus of each swelling eye
Oreflow our Ægypt; stay, rash quill, but why?
Why should we wooe forth tears? we had more need
To weep in blood; the Church begins to bleed,
And who can blame her? we must all confesse
She had few Heads before, but now one lesse:
Alas poor Orphan! how is she opprest
To lose so dear a friend, and see the rest
Lye drawing on; this sorrow sure will keep
Her eye-lyds open: let her, let her weep
Till Heav'n shall please to contradict her fate,
A weeping Church portends a bleeding State.
Can quit the firmament, unmiss'd, and run
Beyond our sight? If so, Armagh may be
Obliterated from posterity.
But is he fled?—
Then let the Nylus of each swelling eye
Oreflow our Ægypt; stay, rash quill, but why?
Why should we wooe forth tears? we had more need
To weep in blood; the Church begins to bleed,
And who can blame her? we must all confesse
She had few Heads before, but now one lesse:
Alas poor Orphan! how is she opprest
To lose so dear a friend, and see the rest
Lye drawing on; this sorrow sure will keep
Her eye-lyds open: let her, let her weep
Till Heav'n shall please to contradict her fate,
A weeping Church portends a bleeding State.
What? are the Muses silent? are they all
Delug'd with teares? shall their Mœcenas fall
Without regard? I rather would believe
They're now complotting joyntly how to grieve
With most advantage: sorrow often swells
In tears, before it flowes in words, and tells
Her melancholly story; they that know
The course of grief, will grant it to be so;
Silence is now a crime, and I had rather
(Like Heraclitus) weep and write together,
Than rest in silence, for I have a debt
Of gratitude to pay, which will not let
My fancy rest contented till I have
Layd down my gratefull off'ring at his grave.
Delug'd with teares? shall their Mœcenas fall
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They're now complotting joyntly how to grieve
With most advantage: sorrow often swells
In tears, before it flowes in words, and tells
Her melancholly story; they that know
The course of grief, will grant it to be so;
Silence is now a crime, and I had rather
(Like Heraclitus) weep and write together,
Than rest in silence, for I have a debt
Of gratitude to pay, which will not let
My fancy rest contented till I have
Layd down my gratefull off'ring at his grave.
That little education I dare own
I had (I'm proud to say) from him alone;
His grave advice would oftentimes distill
Into my eares, and captivate my will:
Th'example of his life did every day
Afford me Lectures, I dare boldly say,
Nay and affirm it with a joyfull breath,
Saint-like he liv'd in Heav'n, although on earth:
I could believe that he had half forgot
There was a world, because he minded not
Inferiour objects; nay, I dare say more
He had quite forgot it, onely for the poor,
Who (whilst the fountain of his fortunes run)
Did dayly feel his charitable sun
Refresh their wants; but when injurious fate
Had built a Crosse upon his whole estate,
Then he, Heav'n-ravish'd soule, took speedy care
To wish their welfare, and relief by pray'r;
I will not tyre my Reader, to expresse
His many troubles, nor the great distresse
He often knew; but this Ile say, that he
Was so acquainted with all misery,
That like th'out-daring rocke, no storme could move
His soule, being fenc'd (with heav'ns proof armour) Love.
As for his Learning, I must needs confesse
'Tis better known than I can well expresse;
Yet this Ile say, his unexampled life
Was a continuall study void of strife:
He was a living Library, in whom
A man might reade things past, & things to come.
What need we more? 'tis childish to repeat
Each virtue, when he had them in the great;
And they that wish to know him truly well
Let them ask Rome, for Rome can sadly tell;
Now Ireland weeps, England laments, but Rome
Cryes out, a Heretick deserves no tomb.
I had (I'm proud to say) from him alone;
His grave advice would oftentimes distill
Into my eares, and captivate my will:
Th'example of his life did every day
Afford me Lectures, I dare boldly say,
Nay and affirm it with a joyfull breath,
Saint-like he liv'd in Heav'n, although on earth:
I could believe that he had half forgot
There was a world, because he minded not
Inferiour objects; nay, I dare say more
He had quite forgot it, onely for the poor,
Who (whilst the fountain of his fortunes run)
Did dayly feel his charitable sun
Refresh their wants; but when injurious fate
Had built a Crosse upon his whole estate,
Then he, Heav'n-ravish'd soule, took speedy care
To wish their welfare, and relief by pray'r;
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His many troubles, nor the great distresse
He often knew; but this Ile say, that he
Was so acquainted with all misery,
That like th'out-daring rocke, no storme could move
His soule, being fenc'd (with heav'ns proof armour) Love.
As for his Learning, I must needs confesse
'Tis better known than I can well expresse;
Yet this Ile say, his unexampled life
Was a continuall study void of strife:
He was a living Library, in whom
A man might reade things past, & things to come.
What need we more? 'tis childish to repeat
Each virtue, when he had them in the great;
And they that wish to know him truly well
Let them ask Rome, for Rome can sadly tell;
Now Ireland weeps, England laments, but Rome
Cryes out, a Heretick deserves no tomb.
Ye Prodigies of Faction, we can tell
He's gon to Heav'n with a miracle,
His soule's above your pray'rs; be this his glory,
He went to God, but miss'd your Purgatory;
Then cease your smiles, convert them into teares
For your own follyes, let your hearty pray'rs
Move Heav'n to pity, that at last ye may
Enjoy the comfort of a lasting day,
And so farewell—
He's gon to Heav'n with a miracle,
His soule's above your pray'rs; be this his glory,
He went to God, but miss'd your Purgatory;
Then cease your smiles, convert them into teares
For your own follyes, let your hearty pray'rs
Move Heav'n to pity, that at last ye may
Enjoy the comfort of a lasting day,
And so farewell—
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—Methinks I sadly heare
The Muses groane forth Elegies, and roare
Their shrill-tun'd voices, every high-bred straine
Does seem, if not a heart, to break a veyne;
Oh blame them not, for even thus they cry'd
When their belov'd, their great Mœcenas dy'd;
Great losses, cause great grief, yet let us say
(Though God was pleas'd to take Armagh away)
That he was just, because he did prolong
His well-spent dayes, and lend him us so long.
His mercy like the Phœnix, never dyes,
One passes by, to let the other rise:
Thus having payd the tribute of my heart,
I must (although unwillingly) depart.
Farewell blest soule, farewell, all I desire
Is to shake soules, not hands, and so retire.
The Muses groane forth Elegies, and roare
Their shrill-tun'd voices, every high-bred straine
Does seem, if not a heart, to break a veyne;
Oh blame them not, for even thus they cry'd
When their belov'd, their great Mœcenas dy'd;
Great losses, cause great grief, yet let us say
(Though God was pleas'd to take Armagh away)
That he was just, because he did prolong
His well-spent dayes, and lend him us so long.
His mercy like the Phœnix, never dyes,
One passes by, to let the other rise:
Thus having payd the tribute of my heart,
I must (although unwillingly) depart.
Farewell blest soule, farewell, all I desire
Is to shake soules, not hands, and so retire.
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His Epitaph.
Reader, these narrow confines doe containRomes envy, Irelands loss, & Englands gain.
If true desert, a just reward might have,
The largest Continent should be his Grave;
But he's content, Reader, be this thy care,
Think on our losse, depart, but leave a teare.
The End.
| An elegie on the Most Reverend & Learned James Usher L. Archbishop of Armagh | |