A Funeral POEM ON Thomas Gunston Esq

Presented to The Right Honourable The Lady ABNEY Lady Mayoress of London. 

TO THE Dear Memory of my Honoured Friend Thomas Gunston Esq Who Died November 11. 1700. When he had just Finish't his Seat at NEWINGTON. 

OF blasted Hopes and of short withering Joys
 Sing Heavenly Muse. Try thine Ethereal Voice
 In Funeral Numbers and a doleful Song;
 GUNSTON the Just, the Generous, and the Young,
 GUNSTON the Friend is dead. O Empty Name
 Of Earthly Bliss! 'Tis all an Airy Dream,
 All a Vain Thought! Our Soaring Fancies rise
 On treacherous Wings; and Hopes that touch the Skies
 Drag but a longer Ruine thro' the downward Air,
 And plunge the falling Joy but deeper in Despair. 

How did our Souls stand flatter'd and prepar'd
 To shout him welcome to the Seat he rear'd! 
There the Dear Man should see his Hopes Compleat,
 Smiling and tasting every lawful Sweet
 That Peace and Plenty brings, while numerous Years
 Roll'd happy Circles round the Joyful Spheres:
 Revolving Suns should still renew his strength,
 And draw th' uncommon Thread to an unusual Length. 
But hasty Fate thrusts her dread Shears between,
 Cuts the Young Life off, and shuts up the Scene.
 Thus Airy Pleasure dances in our Sight
 And spreads fair Images of Gay Delight
 T' allure our Souls, till just within our Arms
 The Vision dies, and all the painted Charms
 Flee quick away from the pursuing Sight,
 Till they are lost in Shades, and mingle with the Night. 
Muse, stretch thy Wings and thy sad Journey bend
 To the fair Fabrick that thy Dying Friend
 Built Nameless: 'Twill suggest a thousand things
 Mournful and Soft as my Urania Sings. 

How did he lay the deep Foundations strong,
 Marking the Bounds, and rear the Walls along
 Solid and Lasting; there a numerous Train
 Of Happy GUNSTON's might in Pleasure reign
 While Nations perish and long Ages run,
 Nations unborn, and Ages unbegun:
 Not Time it self should waste the Blest Estate,
 Nor the Tenth Race rebuild the Ancient Seat:
 How fond our Fancies are! The Founder Dies
 Childless: His Sisters weep, and close his Eyes,
 And wait upon his Herse with never-ceasing Cries. 
Lofty and Slow it moves unto the Tomb,
 While weighty Sorrow nods on every Plume;
 A Thousand Groans his dear Remains convey
 To his cold Lodging in a Bed of Clay,
 His Countries Sacred Tears well-watering all the Way. 
See the dull Wheels roll on the Sable Load,
 But no dear Son to tread the Mournful Road,
 And fondly kind drop his young Sorrows there,
 The Father's Urn bedewing with a Filial Tear. 
O had he left us One behind to play
 Wanton about the Painted Hall, and say
 "This was my Father's, with Impatient Joy
 In my fond Arms I'de clasp't the Smiling Boy,
 And call'd him my Young Friend: But Awful Fate
 Design'd the mighty Stroke as lasting as 'twas great. 

And must this Building then, this costly Frame
 Stand here for Strangers? Must some unknown Name
 Possess these Rooms, the Labours of my Friend? 
Why were these Walls rais'd for this hapless End? 
Why these Apartments all adorn'd so Gay? 
Why his rich Fancy lavish't thus away? 
Muse, view the Paintings, how the hovering Light
 Plays o're the Colours in a wanton Flight,
 And mingled Shades wrought in by soft Degrees
 Give a sweet Foyl to all the Charming Piece;
 But Night, Eternal Night hangs black around
 The dismal Chambers of the hollow Ground,
 And Solid Shades unmingled round his Bed
 Stand Hideous: Earthy Fogs embrace his Head,
 And noysom Vapours glide along his Face
 Rising perpetual. Muse, forsake the place,
 Flee the raw Damps of the unwholsome Clay,
 Look to his Airy spacious Hall, and say
 How has he chang'd it for a loathsome Cave,
 Confin'd and Crowded in a narrow Grave! 

Th' Unhappy House looks desolate and mourns,
 And every Door groans doleful as it turns;
 The Pillars languish, and each lofty Wall
 Stately in Grief, laments the Master's Fall
 In drops of Briny Dew; the Fabrick bears
 His faint Resemblance and renews my Tears. 
Solid and square it rises from below;
 A Noble Air without a Gaudy Show
 Reigns thro' the Model, and adorns the Whole,
 Manly and Plain just like the Builders Soul. 

O how I love to view the Stately Frame,
 That dear Memorial of the best-lov'd Name! 
Then could I wish for some prodigious Cave
 Vast as his Seat, and silent as his Grave,
 Where the tall Shades stretch to the hideous Roof,
 Forbid the Day, and guard the Sun-beams off;
 Thither, my willing Feet, shou'd ye be drawn
 At the gray Twilight, and the early Dawn;
 There sweetly sad shou'd my soft Minutes roll,
 Numbring the Sorrows of my drooping Soul. 
But these are Airy Thoughts! Substantial Grief
 Grows by those Objects that should yield Relief;
 Fond of my Woes I heave my Eyes around,
 My Grief from every Prospect courts a Wound;
 Views the green Gardens, views the Smiling Skies,
 Still my Heart sinks, and still my Cares arise;
 My wandring Feet round the dear Mansion rove,
 And there to sooth my Sorrows I indulge my Love. 

Oft have I laid the Awful Calvin by,
 And the sweet Cowley, with Impatient Eye
 To see those Walls, pay the sad Visit there,
 And drop the Tribute of an hourly Tear:
 Still I behold some Melancholy Scene,
 With many a Pensive Thought, and many a Sigh between. 
Two Days ago we took the Evening Air,
 I, and my Grief, and my Urania there;
 Say, my Urania, how the Western Sun
 Broke from Black Clouds, and in full Glory shone
 Gilding the Roof, then dropt into the Sea,
 And sudden Night devour'd the sweet remains of Day
 Thus the dear Youth just rear'd his shining Head
 From Obscure Shades of Life, and sunk among the Dead. 
The rising Sun adorn'd with all his Light
 Smiles on these Walls again: But endless Night
 Reigns uncontroul'd where the dear GUNSTON lies,
 He's set for ever, and must never rise. 
Then why these Beams, Unseasonable Star,
 These lightsome Smiles descending from afar
 To greet a Mourning House? In vain the Day
 Breaks thro' the Windows with a joyful Ray,
 And marks a shining Path along the Floors
 Bounding the Evening and the Morning Hours;
 In vain it bounds 'em: While vast Emptiness
 And hollow Silence reigns thro' all the Place,
 Nor heeds the cheerful change of Nature's Face. 
Yet Natures Wheels will on without controul,
 The Sun will rise, the tuneful Spheres will roll,
 And the two Nightly Bears walk round and watch the Pole. 

See while I spèak, high on her Sable Wheel
 Old Night comes rolling up the Eastern Hill:
 Troops of dark Clouds prepare her way; behold,
 How their brown Pinions Edg'd with Evening Gold
 Spread Shaddowing o're the House, and glide away
 Slowly pursuing the declining Day;
 O're the broad Roof they fly their Circuit still,
 Thus Days before they did, and Days to come they will;
 But the Black Cloud that Shaddows o're his Eyes
 Hangs there immoveable, and never flies:
 Fain would I bid the Envious Gloom be gone,
 Ah fruitless Wish! how are his Curtains drawn
 For a long Evening that despairs the Dawn! 

Muse, view the Turret: Just beneath the Skies
 Lonesome it stands, and fixes both mine Eyes
 As it would ask a Tear. O Sacred Seat,
 Sacred to Friendship! O Divine Retreat! 
Here did I hope my happy Hours t' employ,
 And fed beforehand on the promis'd Joy,
 When weary of the noisy Town, my Friend
 From Mortal Cares retiring shou'd ascend
 And lead me thither. We alone wou'd sit,
 Free and secure of all Intruding Feet:
 Our Thoughts shou'd stretch their longest Wings and rise,
 Nor bound their Soarings by the lower Skies:
 Our Tongues shou'd aim at everlasting Themes,
 And speak what Mortals dare, of all the Names
 Of Boundless Joys and Glories, Thrones, and Seats
 Built high in Heaven for Souls: We'd trace the Streets
 Of Golden Pavement, walk each happy Field,
 And climb and tast the Fruits the spicy Mountains yield:
 Then would we swear to keep the Sacred Road,
 And walk right upwards to the blest Abode:
 We'd charge our parting Spirits there to meet,
 There Hand in Hand approach th' Almighty's Seat,
And bend our Heads adoring at our Maker's Feet. 
Thus should we mount on bold adventrous Wings,
 In high Discourse, and dwell on Heavenly things,
 While the pleas'd Hours in sweet Succession move,
 And Minutes measur'd as they are above
 By ever-circling Joys, and ever-shining Love. 

Anon our Thoughts should lower their lofty Flight,
 Sink by degrees, and take a pleasing Sight
 A large round Prospect of the spreading Plain,
 The Wealthy River, and his Winding Train,
 The Smoaky City, and the Busie Men. 
How we should smile to see degenerate Worms
 Lavish their Lives, and fight for Airy Forms
 Of Painted Honour, Dreams of empty sound,
 Till Envy rise, and shoot a secret Wound
 At swelling Glory; strait the Bubble breaks,
 And the Scenes vanish as the Man awakes:
 Then the tall Titles Insolent and Proud
 Sink to the Dust, and mingle with the Crowd. 

Man is a restless Thing: Still vain and wild,
 Lives beyond Sixty, nor outgrows the Child:
 His hurrying Lusts still break the Sacred Bound,
 To seek new Pleasures on forbidden Ground,
 And buy them all too dear. Unthinking Fool,
 For a short dying Joy to sell a Deathless Soul! 
'Tis but a Grain of Sweetness they can Sow,
 And reap the long sad Harvest of Immortal Woe. 

Another Tribe toyl in a different Strife,
 And banish all the lawful Sweets of Life
 To sweat and dig for Gold, to hoard the Oar,
 Hide the dear Dust yet darker than before,
 And never dare to use a Grain of all the Store. 

Happy the Man that knows the Value just
 Of Earthly Things, nor is enslav'd to Dust. 
'Tis a rich Gift the Skies but rarely send
 To Fav'rite Souls. Then happy thou, my Friend,
 For thou hadst learnt to Manage and Command
 The Wealth that Heaven bestow'd with Liberal Hand:
 Hence this fair Structure rose; and hence this Seat
 Made to invite my not unwilling Feet;
 In vain 'twas made! for We shall never meet,
 And Smile, and Love, and Bless each other here,
 The Envious Tomb forbids thy Face t' appear,
 Detains thee GVNSTON from my longing Eyes,
 And all my hopes lie buried where my GVNSTON lies. 

Come hither all ye tenderest Souls that know
 The heights of Fondness and the depths of Woe,
 Young Mothers, who your darling Babes have found
 Untimely Murd'red with a ghastly Wound;
 Ye frighted Nymphs, who on the Bridal Bed,
 Claspt in your Arms your Lovers Cold and Dead,
 Come; in the Pomp of all your wild Despair
 With flowing Eyelids and disorder'd Hair,
 Death in your Looks; come mingle Grief with me,
 And drown your little Streams in my unbounded Sea. 

You Sacred Mourners of a Nobler Mould
 Born for a Friend, whose dear Embraces hold
 Beyond all Natures Ties; you that have known
 Two happy Souls made intimately One,
 And felt a parting Stroke, 'tis you must tell
 The Smart, the Twinges, and the Racks I feel:
 This Soul of mine that dreadsul Wound has born,
 Off from its Side its dearest Half is torn,
 The Rest lies bleeding, and but lives to mourn. 
Oh Infinite Distress! Such raging Grief
 Shou'd command Pity, and despair Relief. 
Passion methinks should rise from all my Groans,
 Give Sense to Rocks, and Sympathy to Stones. 

Ye dusky Woods and ecchoing Hills around
 Repeat my Cries with a perpetual Sound:
 Be all ye flowry Vales with Thorns o'regrown,
 Assist my Sorrows, and declare your own,
 Alas! your Lord is dead. The humble Plain
 Must ne're receive his Courteous Feet again:
 Mourn ye gay smiling Meadows, and be seen
 In Wintry Robes instead of Youthful Green:
 And bid the Brook that still runs warbling by
 Move silent on, and weep his useless Channel dry. 
Hither methinks the lowing Herds shou'd come,
 And moaning Turtles murmur o're his Tomb:
 The Oak shou'd wither, and the curling Vine
 Weep his Young Life out, while his Arms untwine
 Their Amorous Folds, and mix his Bleeding Soul with mine. 
Ye stately Elms in your long Order mourn,
 Strip off your Pride to dress your Master's Urn:
 Here gently drop your Leaves instead of Tears;
 Ye Elms, the Reverend Growth of Ancient Years,
 Stand tall and naked to the Blustring Rage
 Of the mad Winds; thus it becomes your Age
 To show your Sorrows. Often ye have seen
 Our Heads reclin'd upon the rising Green;
 Beneath your Sacred Shade diffus'd we lay,
 Here Friendship reign'd with an unbounded sway:
 Hither our Souls their constant Off'rings brought,
 The Burthens of the Breast, and Labours of the Thought;
 Our opening Bosoms on the Conscious Ground
 Spread all the Sorrows, all the Joys we found,
 And mingled every Care; nor was it known
 Which of the Pains or Pleasures were our own;
 Then with an equal Hand and honest Soul
 We share the Heap; yet both possess the Whole,
 And all the Passions there thro' both our Bosoms roll. 
By turns We Comfort, and by turns Complain,
 And Bear and Ease by turns the Sympathy of Pain. 

Friendship! Mysterious Thing, what Magick Powers
 Support thy Sway, and charm these Minds of ours? 
Bound to thy Foot we boast our Birth-right still,
 And dream of Freedom when we've lost our Will,
 And chang'd away our Souls: At thy Command
 We snatch new Miseries from a Foreign Hand
 To call them ours, and thoughtless of our Ease
 Plague the dear Self that we were born to please. 
Thou Tyranness of Minds, whose Cruel Throne
 Heaps on poor Mortals Sorrows not their own;
 As tho' our Mother Nature cou'd no more
 Find Woes sufficient for each Son she bore,
 Friendship divides the Shares, and lengthens out the Store. 
Yet are we fond of thine Imperious Reign,
 Proud of the Slavery, wanton in our Pain,
 And chide the courteous Hand when Death dissolves the Chain. 

Vertue, forgive the Thought! The raving Muse
 Wild and despairing knows not what she does,
 Grows mad in Grief, and in her Savage Hours
 Affronts the Name she Loves and she adores. 
She is thy Votaress too; and at thy Shrine
 O Sacred Friendship! offer'd Songs Divine
 While GUNSTON liv'd, and both our Souls were thine. 
Here to these Shades at solemn Hours we came
 To pay Devotion with a mutual Flame,
 And roll'd in Pleasures, while the Evening Breeze
 Fann'd the Leaves gently, sporting thro' the Trees,
 And the declining Sun with sloping Wheels
 Roll'd down the Golden Day behind the Western Hills. 

Mourn ye young Gardens, ye unfinish't Gates,
 Ye Green Inclosures and ye growing Sweets,
 Lament, for ye our Midnight Hours have known,
 And watch'd us walking by the silent Moon
 In Conference Divine, while Heavenly Fire
 Kindling our Breasts did all our Thoughts inspire
 With Joys almost Immortal; then our Zeal
 Blaz'd and burnt high to reach th' Ethereal Hill,
 And Love refin'd like that above the Poles
 Threw both our Arms round one anothers Souls
 In Rapture and Embraces. Oh forbear,
 Forbear, my Song! this is too much to hear,
 Too dreadful to repeat; such Joys as these
 Fled from the Earth for ever! 

Oh for a general Grief! let all things share
 Our Woes that knew our Loves. The Neighbouring Air
 Let it be laden with Immortal Sighs,
 And tell the Gales, that every Breath that flies
 Over these Fields shou'd murmur and complain,
 And kiss the fading Grass, and propagate the Pain.
 Weep all ye Buildings, and ye Groves around
 For ever Weep, This is an endless Wound
 Vast and Incurable. Ye Buildings knew
 His Silver Tongue, ye Groves have heard it too:
 At that dear Sound no more shall ye rejoyce,
 And I no more must hear the Charming Voice,
 Wo to my drooping Soul! that Heavenly Breath
 That could speak Life lies now congeal'd in Death;
 While on his folded Lips all Cold and Pale
 Eternal Chains and heavy silence dwell. 

Yet my fond Hope would hear him speak again;
 Once more at least, one gentle Word; and then
 GUNSTON aloud I call: In vain I cry
 GUNSTON aloud; for he must ne're reply. 
In vain I mourn, and drop these Funeral Tears,
 Death and the Grave have neither Eyes nor Ears:
 Wandring I tune my Sorrows to the Groves,
 And vent my swelling Griefs, and tell the Winds our Loves;
 While the dear Youth Sleeps fast and hears 'em not;
 He has forgot me: In the lonesome Vault
 Mindless of WATTS and Friendship there he lies
 Deaf and Unthinking Clay. 

But whither am I led? This Artless Grief
 Hurries the Muse on obstinate and deaf
 To all the nicer Rules, and bears her down
 From the tall Fabrick to the Neighbouring Ground:
 The pleasing Hours and the dear Moments past
 In these sweet Fields reviving on my Tast
 Snatch me away resistless with Impetuous hast. 
Spread thy strong Pinions once again my Song,
 And reach the Turret thou hast left so long:
 O're the wide Roof its lofty Head it rears,
 Waiting for our Converse; but only hears
 The noisie Tumults of the Realms on high;
 The Winds salute it Whistling as they fly,
 Or jarring round the Windows; Rattling Showers
 Lash the fair Sides, above loud Thunder roars,
 But still the Master Sleeps; nor hears the Voice
 Of Sacred Friendship, nor the Tempests noise:
 An Iron Slumber sits on every Sence,
 In vain the Heavenly Thunders strice to rouze it thence. 

One Labour more, my Muse, the Golden Sphere
 Seems to demand: See thro' the Dusky Air
 Downward it shines upon the rising Moon,
 And as she labours up to reach her Noon,
 The Ball pursues her Orb with streaming Light,
 And shoots a Golden Dày on the Pale Queen of Night:
 But not one Beam can reach the darksome Grave,
 Or pierce the solid Gloom that fills the Cave
 Where GUNSTON dwells in Death. My waking Eyes
 Saw the last Midnight reigning o're the Skies,
 And Old Bootes drove his shining Carr
 Thro' the Midheaven: Behold the Glittering Sphere
 Bright as a Burning Meteor born on high,
 Or some new Comet glaring thro' the Sky
 It flam'd and mingled with the larger Stars;
 In vain (said I) the Golden Comet Glares,
 In vain it stands; while with a dismal Fall
 He sunk beneath the Ground that rais'd the Lofty Ball. 

Now let me call the Joyful Day to mind;
 'Twas a fair Morning; and the Blustring Wind
 Slept in its peaceful Caverns, while he came
 Gazing and pleas'd to see the Noble Frame
 Crown'd with that shining Orb. "Stand there, he cries,
" Thou little Emblem of the boundless Skies
 "Whither my Soul with fiery Passion tends;
 The Emblem stands; and tells surviving Friends
 Of the bright Palace and the Golden Throne
 Where the Dear GUNSTON's better part is gone:
 His eager Thoughts bent on their shining way
 Let the Clay drop to mingle with the Clay;
 But his great Soul beyond the Stars is fled:
 Then why, my Heart, why should we Mourn him Dead? 
Strangely, my Thoughts, ye let this cozening Grief
 With a false Name impose on your Belief:
 It saw the Flesh sink down with closing Eyes
 To the cold Earth, and cry'd, 'tis GUNSTON Dies:
 Mistaken Grief! to call the Flesh the Friend! 
The Heavenly Court saw the Bright Youth ascend,
 Flew to embrace him with Immortal Love,
 And sung his Welcome to the Seats above. 
The Building firm, and all the Mansions bright,
 The Roof high-Vaulted with Aethereal Light:
 Beauty and Strength on the tall Bulwarks Sate
 In Heavenly Diamond: And for every Gate
 On Golden Hinges a broad Ruby turns,
 Guards off the Foe, and as it moves it burns. 
Millions of Glories Reign thro' every part;
 Infinite Power and Uncreated Art
 Stand here display'd, and to the Stranger show
 How it out-shines the Noblest Seats below;
 The Stranger just look'd down, and Smil'd upon 'em too. 

Come, my Urania, leave the doleful Strain,
 Let Heavenly Notes resume their Joys again;
 In Everlasting Numbers sing, and say,
 "GUNSTON the Friend lives still, and wipe our Tears away.