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Title: To The Pious Memory Of Charles Walbeoffe Esquire
Author: Henry Vaughan [
More Titles by Vaughan]
TO THE PIOUS MEMORY OF C[HARLES] W[ALBEOFFE] ESQUIRE,
WHO FINISHED HIS COURSE HERE, AND MADE HIS ENTRANCE
INTO IMMORTALITY UPON THE 13 OF SEPTEMBER, IN THE YEAR
OF REDEMPTION, 1653.
Now that the public sorrow doth subside,
And those slight tears which custom springs are dried;
While all the rich and outside mourners pass
Home from thy dust, to empty their own glass;
I--who the throng affect not, nor their state--
Steal to thy grave undress'd, to meditate
On our sad loss, accompanied by none,
An obscure mourner that would weep alone.
So, when the world's great luminary sets,
Some scarce known star into the zenith gets,
Twinkles and curls, a weak but willing spark,
As glow-worms here do glitter in the dark.
Yet, since the dimmest flame that kindles there
An humble love unto the light doth bear,
And true devotion from an hermit's cell
Will Heav'n's kind King as soon reach and as well,
As that which from rich shrines and altars flies,
Led by ascending incense to the skies:
'Tis no malicious rudeness, if the might
Of love makes dark things wait upon the bright,
And from my sad retirements calls me forth,
The just recorder of thy death and worth.
Long didst thou live--if length be measured by
The tedious reign of our calamity--
And counter to all storms and changes still
Kept'st the same temper, and the selfsame will.
Though trials came as duly as the day,
And in such mists, that none could see his way,
Yet thee I found still virtuous, and saw
The sun give clouds, and Charles give both the law.
When private interest did all hearts bend,
And wild dissents the public peace did rend,
Thou, neither won, nor worn, wert still thyself,
Not aw'd by force, nor basely brib'd with pelf.
What the insuperable stream of times
Did dash thee with, those suff'rings were, not crimes.
So the bright sun eclipses bears; and we,
Because then passive, blame him not. Should he
For enforc'd shades, and the moon's ruder veil
Much nearer us than him, be judg'd to fail?
Who traduce thee, so err. As poisons by
Correction are made antidotes, so thy
Just soul did turn ev'n hurtful things to good,
Us'd bad laws so they drew not tears, nor blood.
Heav'n was thy aim, and thy great, rare design
Was not to lord it here, but there to shine.
Earth nothing had, could tempt thee. All that e'er
Thou pray'd'st for here was peace, and glory there.
For though thy course in Time's long progress fell
On a sad age, when war and open'd hell
Licens'd all arts and sects, and made it free
To thrive by fraud, and blood, and blasphemy:
Yet thou thy just inheritance didst by
No sacrilege, nor pillage multiply.
No rapine swell'd thy state, no bribes, nor fees,
Our new oppressors' best annuities.
Such clean pure hands hadst thou! and for thy heart,
Man's secret region, and his noblest part;
Since I was privy to't, and had the key
Of that fair room, where thy bright spirit lay,
I must affirm it did as much surpass
Most I have known, as the clear sky doth glass.
Constant and kind, and plain, and meek, and mild
It was, and with no new conceits defil'd.
Busy, but sacred thoughts--like bees--did still
Within it stir, and strive unto that hill
Where redeem'd spirits, evermore alive,
After their work is done, ascend and hive.
No outward tumults reach'd this inward place:
'Twas holy ground, where peace, and love, and grace
Kept house, where the immortal restless life,
In a most dutiful and pious strife,
Like a fix'd watch, mov'd all in order still;
The will serv'd God, and ev'ry sense the will!
In this safe state Death met thee, Death, which is
But a kind usher of the good to bliss,
Therefore to weep because thy course is run,
Or droop like flow'rs, which lately lost the sun,
I cannot yield, since Faith will not permit
A tenure got by conquest to the pit.
For the great Victor fought for us, and He
Counts ev'ry dust that is laid up of thee.
Besides, Death now grows decrepit, and hath
Spent the most part both of its time and wrath.
That thick, black night, which mankind fear'd, is torn
By troops of stars, and the bright day's forlorn.
The next glad news--most glad unto the just!--
Will be the trumpet's summons from the dust.
Then I'll not grieve; nay, more, I'll not allow
My soul should think thee absent from me now.
Some bid their dead "Good night!" but I will say
"Good morrow to dear Charles!" for it is day.
[The end]
Henry Vaughan's poem: To The Pious Memory Of Charles Walbeoffe Esquire
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