Fons Lachrymarum or a fountain of tears: From whence doth flow Englands Complaint, Jeremiahs Lamentations paraphras'd with Divine Meditations and an elegy Upon that Son of Valor Sir Charles Lucas. Written by John Quarles |
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AN ELEGIE Upon the Death of my dear Friend Mr. ROBERT REASON
Who quitted this life the 13. NOVEMBEBER, 1646. |
 | Fons Lachrymarum |  |
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AN ELEGIE Upon the Death of my dear Friend Mr. ROBERT REASON Who quitted this life the 13. NOVEMBEBER, 1646.
------ Sic voluêre Fata.
By J. Q.
Ah, whence proceed those swelling floods that rise
Like restles waves from my tempestuous eys?
The surges beat (provok'd by stormy passion)
My weather-beaten senses out of fashion.
But ah forbear, (distemp'ring grief) surcease
Those storms, which rage against the shore of peace.
Forbear superfluous blasts, be not too brief
To dash my Soul against the rocks of grief:
But stop a time (sad Genius) here's a stile
Invites a rest; Let's meditate a while:
Like restles waves from my tempestuous eys?
The surges beat (provok'd by stormy passion)
My weather-beaten senses out of fashion.
But ah forbear, (distemp'ring grief) surcease
Those storms, which rage against the shore of peace.
Forbear superfluous blasts, be not too brief
To dash my Soul against the rocks of grief:
But stop a time (sad Genius) here's a stile
Invites a rest; Let's meditate a while:
Can tears express a perfect grief? Or can
Excess of language re-inlarge a man
From Death, benumming shades? can blubbering eyes
Invite him back? can integrating cryes
Enforce a life, in spight of death? can all
The dolefull sighings in this world recall
Revolted breath? Oh no: 'Tis therefore vain
To think that tears, can call him back again
From Heav'ns immortalizing throne: Thus we
Fond men expand our own infirmitie;
And thus our spend-thrift eyes profusely flow
In lavish tears, for him, whose Soul we know
Is far more happy, then we can express:
(Why do we then lament his happiness?)
Then go (sad Genius) and advise all such
That grieve, to grieve, because they griev'd so much
For him, who Heav'n hath lately made a stranger
To grief, who rests above the reach of danger;
There let him rest in a most glorious sleep:
And if weak nature urgeth us to weep,
Let's weep, nay weep indeed, until our eyes,
Blinded with weeping, weep for new supplies
Let's weep for sin, let troops of sighs attend
Our hasty tides to their long journeys end.
Oh let's deplore our most unhappy state
Betimes, for fear least time-devouring fate
Blocks up the narrow passage of our breath,
And so surprize us with a sudden Death:
And ah, how soon the shadow-flying days
Of man consumes! how soon the troubled blaze
Of his frail life expires! and ah how soon
He finds a night, before he thinks 'tis noon:
And how the pleasures of this sordid earth
Shadow his senses, with a glimmering mirth!
And what's this world? 'tis but a glass, wherein
Nothing appears but Heav'n-confronting sin:
Alas, it's painted beauty represents
Nothing but folly, crown'd with discontents:
There's nothing here that truly may be stil'd
A happiness; here's nothing but's defil'd.
Alas, alas, in what a sad condition
Is dust-composed man! what expedition
He daily makes, to gain those things, which gain'd,
Gnaw him like vipers; thus are mortals stain'd
And blur'd with vanities; and thus they spend
Their winged hours, as if they could not end:
Fond earths-consuming trash hath so combin'd
Their hearts to worldly pleasures, that they mind
Nothing but profit, basely gain'd, which shall
Mount them up here, but after let them fall.
But where's that man, whose Soul contrives to be
Imparadis'd, and crown'd with dignitie?
With Halalujahs Angels, which controul
The Family of Heav'n, who still inroul
In their sublimer thoughts? how great, how just
Their maker is, before whose throne all must
Appear with spotless Souls, and fly from hence
With downy wings of Dove-like innocence!
Excess of language re-inlarge a man
126
Invite him back? can integrating cryes
Enforce a life, in spight of death? can all
The dolefull sighings in this world recall
Revolted breath? Oh no: 'Tis therefore vain
To think that tears, can call him back again
From Heav'ns immortalizing throne: Thus we
Fond men expand our own infirmitie;
And thus our spend-thrift eyes profusely flow
In lavish tears, for him, whose Soul we know
Is far more happy, then we can express:
(Why do we then lament his happiness?)
Then go (sad Genius) and advise all such
That grieve, to grieve, because they griev'd so much
For him, who Heav'n hath lately made a stranger
To grief, who rests above the reach of danger;
There let him rest in a most glorious sleep:
And if weak nature urgeth us to weep,
Let's weep, nay weep indeed, until our eyes,
Blinded with weeping, weep for new supplies
Let's weep for sin, let troops of sighs attend
Our hasty tides to their long journeys end.
Oh let's deplore our most unhappy state
Betimes, for fear least time-devouring fate
Blocks up the narrow passage of our breath,
And so surprize us with a sudden Death:
And ah, how soon the shadow-flying days
Of man consumes! how soon the troubled blaze
Of his frail life expires! and ah how soon
He finds a night, before he thinks 'tis noon:
127
Shadow his senses, with a glimmering mirth!
And what's this world? 'tis but a glass, wherein
Nothing appears but Heav'n-confronting sin:
Alas, it's painted beauty represents
Nothing but folly, crown'd with discontents:
There's nothing here that truly may be stil'd
A happiness; here's nothing but's defil'd.
Alas, alas, in what a sad condition
Is dust-composed man! what expedition
He daily makes, to gain those things, which gain'd,
Gnaw him like vipers; thus are mortals stain'd
And blur'd with vanities; and thus they spend
Their winged hours, as if they could not end:
Fond earths-consuming trash hath so combin'd
Their hearts to worldly pleasures, that they mind
Nothing but profit, basely gain'd, which shall
Mount them up here, but after let them fall.
But where's that man, whose Soul contrives to be
Imparadis'd, and crown'd with dignitie?
With Halalujahs Angels, which controul
The Family of Heav'n, who still inroul
In their sublimer thoughts? how great, how just
Their maker is, before whose throne all must
Appear with spotless Souls, and fly from hence
With downy wings of Dove-like innocence!
But stay my quill; have I thus soon forgot
My bosom friend, as if I lov'd him not?
No, no, though he be dead, he cannot dye;
Death cannot drive him from my memory,
Where he shall rest, till time shall recommend
My friend-bereaved Soul unto my friend;
For whilst he liv'd, my sympathizing heart
Was truly his, and truly bore a part
In what he suffer'd; Ah but now he's fled,
And left me here, to say, my friend is dead.
Poor soul! and why poor soul? rash tongue cal back
That fond abortive word; how can he lack,
That dayly feeds upon delicious dyet
In Heav'ns great store-house, and knows no disquiet
This was an Error that my hasty quil
Too rashly stept into, against my will:
I hope 'tis venial, reason may afford
A pardon for a grief-relapsed word.
When passion rules the fancy, men become
Vainly Pragmatick, or extreamly dumb:
But why rash death, why didst thou send thy dart
To take possession of his willing heart,
And gave no longer warning? was there none
Could please thy pallate, only him alone?
'Twas quickly ended, and as soon begun;
Believe me death, 'twas but unfriendly done.
But why do I (fond man) expostulate
With thee, that art an all-consuming fate?
Th'ast done a happy deed, I dare not blame
Thy power, because I know from whence it came
Shall I, because he was my friend, repine
At his departure? was he Heav'ns or mine?
I yield him Heav'ns, not mine; but yet I might
Claim him as finite, Heav'n as infinite.
He was but lent me for a time, that I
And others by his life might learn to die:
Whilst he enjoy'd the fulness of his breath,
His life was a preparative for death:
His whole delight, and study was, to pry
Into the bosom of Divinity;
From whence he suck'd such wholsom streams, that those
Which heard him, gave a plaudit to his close:
His daily practice was, how to fulfil
And prosecute his great Redeemers will:
Heav'n was his Meditation, and he gave
A reverent respect unto his grave:
Faith, Hope, and Charity did sweetly rest
Within the Counsel-chamber of his brest.
And in a word, the graces did agree
To make one happy Soul, and this was he:
As for his moral duties, they were such,
That should I strive, I could not speak too much:
His civill carriage towards all men might claim
A perfect right, to a beloved name:
His actions were so just, that they may tell,
He liv'd uprightly, and he dy'd as well:
His love, his sweet society might call
Ten thousand tears t'attend his funeral.
And to conclude, in him all men might find
A real heart, and a most noble mind;
But now he's gone, his winged Soul's aspir'd
To Heav'ns high palace, where he sits attir'd
With glorious immortality, and sings
Melodious Anthems to the King of Kings.
There, there his melting Soul, ravish'd to see
The Sun-bright throne of splendent Majestie,
Adores his wel-pleas'd maker, who makes know
He's pleased to crown, and keep him for his own
Oh there he rests free from the rubs of earth,
Hugging no shadow, but a real mirth:
Oh there's no grief, no sorrow found to vex
His peaceful Soul; no trouble to perplex,
Or blast his new-bred joys; there is no woe,
No care, no pain, no misery, no foe,
That dare presume to interrupt him; all
Must stand aloof, and not appear, nor shall
Incroaching bold-fac'd grief, nor pale-fac'd spight
Dare interpose t'eclipse one blaze of light.
Oh there methink I here him sweetly sing,
Grave, where's thy power, oh Death, where's [illeg.] sting
Methinks I here his warbling tongue declare,
How good his works, how great his wonders are
Methinks I see a great united Band
Of glitt'ring Angels, how prepar'd they stand
To welcom him: Methinks I hear them say,
March on blest Soul, thou need'st not doubt [illeg.] way
Oh glorious sight! In what triumphing state
They guard his Soul to Heav'ns refulgent gat
Where when he comes disrob'd of all his sin,
The gates fly open, and his Soul flies in.
Methinks my ravish'd ears are fil'd and blest
With such harmonious raptures, and possest
With such varieties, that even I
Were sin absolved, would resolve to die.
Methinks I hear within Heav'ns Ecchoing Grove
The quavering Angels chant, as if they strove
T'excel themselves: Methinks that every breath
Is a sweet Invitation unto death.
But oh what rare, or what profound invention,
Beatifi'd with a strong apprehension,
Can sound the depth of those delights, which he
Shall swim and bath in to Eternitie:
There rest dear Soul, having thus conquered fate,
Thy pleasures never shall expire their date.
There, there the Alpha of thy ioys shall never
Know an Omega, but be blest for ever
With Alpha and Omega, who shall crown
Thy throne-approaching Soul with true renown,
Whilst we confused mortals, here below
Gulp up the dregs of sorrow, and bestow
Curses instead of prayers upon each other,
And daily labor to confuse, and smother
Our serene happiness, and turn those ioys
Which Heav'n allow'd us, to neglected toys:
And thus our deviating Souls befool
Themselves, and practise in the common School
Of Errors: Thus erroniously we bend
Our flexive minds to folly, and commend
Non-sence for wisdom; Reason being dead,
Repose my Muse, discretion calls to bed.
My bosom friend, as if I lov'd him not?
No, no, though he be dead, he cannot dye;
Death cannot drive him from my memory,
128
My friend-bereaved Soul unto my friend;
For whilst he liv'd, my sympathizing heart
Was truly his, and truly bore a part
In what he suffer'd; Ah but now he's fled,
And left me here, to say, my friend is dead.
Poor soul! and why poor soul? rash tongue cal back
That fond abortive word; how can he lack,
That dayly feeds upon delicious dyet
In Heav'ns great store-house, and knows no disquiet
This was an Error that my hasty quil
Too rashly stept into, against my will:
I hope 'tis venial, reason may afford
A pardon for a grief-relapsed word.
When passion rules the fancy, men become
Vainly Pragmatick, or extreamly dumb:
But why rash death, why didst thou send thy dart
To take possession of his willing heart,
And gave no longer warning? was there none
Could please thy pallate, only him alone?
'Twas quickly ended, and as soon begun;
Believe me death, 'twas but unfriendly done.
But why do I (fond man) expostulate
With thee, that art an all-consuming fate?
Th'ast done a happy deed, I dare not blame
Thy power, because I know from whence it came
Shall I, because he was my friend, repine
At his departure? was he Heav'ns or mine?
I yield him Heav'ns, not mine; but yet I might
Claim him as finite, Heav'n as infinite.
129
And others by his life might learn to die:
Whilst he enjoy'd the fulness of his breath,
His life was a preparative for death:
His whole delight, and study was, to pry
Into the bosom of Divinity;
From whence he suck'd such wholsom streams, that those
Which heard him, gave a plaudit to his close:
His daily practice was, how to fulfil
And prosecute his great Redeemers will:
Heav'n was his Meditation, and he gave
A reverent respect unto his grave:
Faith, Hope, and Charity did sweetly rest
Within the Counsel-chamber of his brest.
And in a word, the graces did agree
To make one happy Soul, and this was he:
As for his moral duties, they were such,
That should I strive, I could not speak too much:
His civill carriage towards all men might claim
A perfect right, to a beloved name:
His actions were so just, that they may tell,
He liv'd uprightly, and he dy'd as well:
His love, his sweet society might call
Ten thousand tears t'attend his funeral.
And to conclude, in him all men might find
A real heart, and a most noble mind;
But now he's gone, his winged Soul's aspir'd
To Heav'ns high palace, where he sits attir'd
With glorious immortality, and sings
Melodious Anthems to the King of Kings.
130
The Sun-bright throne of splendent Majestie,
Adores his wel-pleas'd maker, who makes know
He's pleased to crown, and keep him for his own
Oh there he rests free from the rubs of earth,
Hugging no shadow, but a real mirth:
Oh there's no grief, no sorrow found to vex
His peaceful Soul; no trouble to perplex,
Or blast his new-bred joys; there is no woe,
No care, no pain, no misery, no foe,
That dare presume to interrupt him; all
Must stand aloof, and not appear, nor shall
Incroaching bold-fac'd grief, nor pale-fac'd spight
Dare interpose t'eclipse one blaze of light.
Oh there methink I here him sweetly sing,
Grave, where's thy power, oh Death, where's [illeg.] sting
Methinks I here his warbling tongue declare,
How good his works, how great his wonders are
Methinks I see a great united Band
Of glitt'ring Angels, how prepar'd they stand
To welcom him: Methinks I hear them say,
March on blest Soul, thou need'st not doubt [illeg.] way
Oh glorious sight! In what triumphing state
They guard his Soul to Heav'ns refulgent gat
Where when he comes disrob'd of all his sin,
The gates fly open, and his Soul flies in.
Methinks my ravish'd ears are fil'd and blest
With such harmonious raptures, and possest
With such varieties, that even I
Were sin absolved, would resolve to die.
131
The quavering Angels chant, as if they strove
T'excel themselves: Methinks that every breath
Is a sweet Invitation unto death.
But oh what rare, or what profound invention,
Beatifi'd with a strong apprehension,
Can sound the depth of those delights, which he
Shall swim and bath in to Eternitie:
There rest dear Soul, having thus conquered fate,
Thy pleasures never shall expire their date.
There, there the Alpha of thy ioys shall never
Know an Omega, but be blest for ever
With Alpha and Omega, who shall crown
Thy throne-approaching Soul with true renown,
Whilst we confused mortals, here below
Gulp up the dregs of sorrow, and bestow
Curses instead of prayers upon each other,
And daily labor to confuse, and smother
Our serene happiness, and turn those ioys
Which Heav'n allow'd us, to neglected toys:
And thus our deviating Souls befool
Themselves, and practise in the common School
Of Errors: Thus erroniously we bend
Our flexive minds to folly, and commend
Non-sence for wisdom; Reason being dead,
Repose my Muse, discretion calls to bed.
| Fons Lachrymarum | |