On the Death of Mr. Jordan,
Second Master at Westminster School.
Ence, and make
room for me, all
Onely to read the Epitaph on this Tombe.
Here lies the Master of my tender years,
The Guardian of my Parents Hope and Fears,
Whose Government ne'r stood me in a Tear;
All weeping was reserv'd to spend it here.
Come hither all who his rare virtues knew,
And mourn with Me: He was your Tutor too.
Let's joyn our Sighes, till they fly far, and shew
His native Belgia what she's now to do.
The League of grief bids her with us lament;
By her he was brought forth, and hither sent
In payment of all Men we there had lost,
And all the English Blood those wars have cost.
Wisely did Nature this learn'd Man divide;
His Birth was Theirs, his Death the mournful pride
Of England; and t'avoid the envious strife
Of other Lands, all Europe had his Life,
But we in chief; our Countrey soon was grown
A Debter more to Him, then He to❜his Own.
He pluckt from youth the follies and the crimes,
And built up Men against the future times,
For deeds of Age are in their Causes then,
And though he taught but Boys, he made the Men.
Hence 'twas a Master in those ancient dayes
When men sought Knowledge first, and by it Praise,
Was a thing full of Reverence, Profit, Fame;
Father it self was but a Second Name.
He scorn'd the profit; his Instructions all
Were like the Science, Free and Liberal.
He deserv'd Honors, but despis'd them too
As much as those who have them, others do.
He knew not that which Complement they call;
Could Flatter none, but Himself least of all.
So true, so faithful, and so just as he,
Was nought on earth, but his own Memorie.
His Memory, where all things written were
As sure and fixt as in Fates Books they are.
Thus he in Arts so vast a treasure gain'd,
Whilst still the Use came in, and Stock remain'd.
And having purchas'd all that man can know,
He labor'd with't to enrich others now.
Did thus a new, and harder task sustain,
Like those that work in Mines for others gain.
He, though more nobly, had much more to do,
To search the Vein, dig, purge, and mint it too.
Though my Excuse would be, I must confess,
Much better had his Diligenc[e] been less.
But if a Muse hereafter smile on me,
And say, Be thou a Poet, men shall see
That none could a more grateful Scholar have;
For what I ow'd his Life, I'll pay his Grave.
On his Majesties Return out of Scotland.
Welcome, great Sir, with all the joy that's due
Two greatest Blessings which this age can know ;
For that to Thee, for Thee to Heav'n we ow.
Others by War their Conquests gain,
You like a God your ends obtain.
Who when rude Chaos for his help did call,
Spoke but the Word, and sweetly Order'd all.
This happy Concord in no Blood is writ,
None can grudge heav'n full thanks for it. No Mothers here lament their Childrens fate, And like the Peace, but think it comes too late. No Widows hear the jocond Bells,
And take them for their Husbands Knells. No Drop of Blood is spilt which might be said To mark our joyful Holiday with Red.
'Twas only Heav'n could work this wondrous thing, And onely work't by such a King.
Again the Northern Hindes may sing and plow,
And fear no harm but from the weather now.
Again may Tradesmen love their pain
By knowing now for whom they gain.
The Armour now may be hung up to sight,
And onely in their Halls the Children fright.
The gain of Civil Wars will not allow
Bay to the Conquerors Brow.
At such a Game what fool would venture in,
Where one must lose, yet neither side can win?
How justly would our Neighbours smile
At these mad quarrels of our Isle
Sweld with proud hopes to snatch the whole away,
Whilst we Bet all, and yet for nothing Play?
How was the silver Tine frighted before,
And durst not kiss the armed shore? His waters ran more swiftly then they use, And hasted to the Sea to tell the News.
The Sea it self, how rough so ere Could scarce believe such fury here. How could the Scots and we be Enemies grown? That, and its Master Charls had made us One.
No Blood so loud as that of Civil War;
It calls for Dangers from afar.
Let's rather go, and seek out Them, and Fame;
Thus our Fore-fathers got, thus left a Name.
All their rich blood was spent with gains,
But that which swells their Childrens Veins.
Why sit we still, our Spir'its wrapt up in Lead?
Not like them whilst they Liv'd, but now they're Dd?
This noise at home was but Fates policie
To raise our Spir'its more high.
So a bold Lyon ere he seeks his prey,
Lashes his sides, and roars, and then away.
How would the German Eagle fear,
To see a new Gustavus there?
How would it shake, though as 'twas wont to do
For Jove of old, it now bore Thunder too!
Sure there are actions of this height and praise
Destin'd to Charls his days.
What will the Triumphs of his Battels be,
Whose very Peace it self is Victorie?
When Heav'n bestows the best of Kings,
It bids us think of mighty things.
His Valour, Wisdom, Offspring speak no less;
And we the Prophets Sons, write not by Guess.
On the Death of Sir Anthony Vandike, The famous Painter.
Andike is Dead; but what Bold Muse shall dare
T'express her sadness? Po'esie must become
An Art, like Painting here, an Art that's Dumb.
Let's all our solemn grief in silence keep,
Like some sad Picture which he made to weep,
Or those who saw't, for none his works could view
Unmov'd with the same Passions which he drew.
His pieces so with their live Objects strive,
That both or Pictures seem, or both Alive.
Nature her self amaz'd, does doubting stand,
Which is her own, and which the Painters Hand,
And does attempt the like with less success,
When her own work in Twins she would express.
His All-resembling Pencil did out-pass
The mimick Imag'ry of Looking-glass.
Nor was his Life less perfect then his Art,
Nor was his Hand less erring then his Heart.
There was no false, or fading Colour there,
The Figures sweet and well proportion'd were.
Most other men, set next to him in view,
Appear'd more shadows then the Men he drew.
Thus still he liv'd till heav'n did for him call,
Where reverent Luke salutes him first of all:
Where he beholds new sights, divinely faire;
And could almost wish for his Pencil there;
Did he not gladly see how all things shine,
Wondrously painted in the Mind Divine,
Whilst he for ever ravisht with the show
Scorns his own Art which we admire below.
Onely his beauteous Lady still he loves;
(The love of heav'nly Objects Heav'n improves)
He sees bright Angels in pure beams appear,
And thinks on her he left so like them here.
And you, fair Widow, who stay here alive,
Since he so much rejoyces, cease to grieve.
Your joys and griefs were wont the same to be;
Begin not now, blest Pair, to Disagree.
No wonder Death mov'd not his gen'erous mind.
You, and a new born You, he left behind.
Even Fate exprest his love to his dear Wife,
And let him end your Picture with his Life.
Ow wretched does Promethe'us state
Whilst he his Second Mis'ery suffers here!
Draw him no more, lest as he tortur'd stands,
He blame great Joves less then the Painters hands.
It would the Vulturs cruelty outgoe,
If once again his Liver thus should grow.
Pity him Jove, and his bold Theft allow,
The Flames he once stole from thee grant him now.
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