Manes Verulamiani
Thirty-two Latin Poems
In Honour of Francis Bacon
Published by Dr. Rawley
1626

The following poems rest in the Harleian Miscellany, c, pp. 287 ff., London 1813 which is a reprint of the editio princeps by John Haviland, London 1626.

Sacred to the Memory of the most Honourable
Sir Francis Bacon, Verulam, Viscount St. Alban.
London, at the press of John Haviland
1626 1

To the Reader

That which my most honoured Master, the Viscount St. Alban, thought of the highest concern, namely to win the favour of Academies and Men of Letters, this, methinks, he has obtained. For the present illustrious memorials of love and grief indicate how great a sorrow his loss has brought to the hearts of such. No, verily, the Muses have not thrown to him 2 this contribution 3 with sparing hand, for very many verses, and those most excellent ones, I keep in my possession. 4 But as he himself delighted not in piles of things, no great pile have I raised. Be this, moreover, enough, to have laid, as it were, the foundations, in the name of the present age. Every age, methinks, will adorn and amplify this structure: though to what age it is vouchsafed to set the finishing hand, this is known only to God and to the Fates.

I
Lament of the Death of the all learned and eminent
Man, Sir 5 Francis Bacon of St. Alban.
Mourn, ye Alban Lares, and thou good Martyr, 6 the hallowed demise of the old man of Verulam. Aye, good Martyr, raise thou too the old lament, to whom nothing has been sadder, next to thy dire cloak. 7

II
The Literary Works of Bacon are called to the Pyre.
Instauratio Magna; 8 subtle sayings; 9 a twofold increase of the sciences, written both in thy country’s speech and then in Latin with multifold enlargement; 10 profound history of life and death, 11 anointed as it were, or rather bathed, with stream of nectar or with Attic honey! Nor must the seventh Henry 12 fail of mention, or if aught there be of more cultured loves, 13 aught that I unwitting have passed over of the works which the vigour of great Bacon hath produced, a Muse more choice than the nine Muses. Ascend ye 14 all, the funeral flames and give to your parent 15 liquid light. The ages are not worthy to enjoy you, when alas, (oh monstrous shame!) your Lord is taken away.
S. Collins, R.C.P.
Rector of King’s College, Cambridge

III
On the Death of the Incomparable Francis, Viscount
St. Alban, Baron Verulam. 16
The while thou didst groan beneath the burden of a long and lingering malady, and pining life halted with uncertain foot, what did wise fate intend? I now at last can see. Only in April, surely, couldst thou die, that here the flower with its tears, there Philomel 17 with her laments, may follow only thy tongue’s funeral-train. 18
George Herbert.

IV
On the Death of the most honoured Man and Lord, 19
Sir Francis of Verulam, Viscount St. Alban,
Late Chancellor of England. 20
Art thou still proud in insolent purple when the bier has robbed so many famed men, thou barren court? Thou shouldst give the day to haircloth and make to sackcloth all the pomp of the bar. Nor let Themis bear the hanging scales, but the urn, the weighty urn of Verulam. Then let her weigh. 21 Alas, not Ephorus tips the beam, but Areopagus. Nor is so great a sage less than the barbarian porch; for your axis groaned, ye schools, when fell so great a pile; the very vault of the world of letters was dissolved, wherein, with equal zest, he graced the civic and the royal robe. 22 Even as Eurydice, wandering through shades of Dislonged to caress her Orpheus, and even as with winged hand, the while Styx leaped at last, scarce ruffled before, he strummed 23 the fibres of his lyre, so did Philosophy, involved in scholars’ riddles, 24 call Bacon to her rescue; so by his touch entranced, she reared her crest: and as she crept along the ground in comic sock, he did not succor 25 her with some device 26 that gossips would approve, 27 but made her wholly new. Then with more polished art, he rose in higher buskin, and the Stagerite, another Virbius 28 lives again in a new Organon. Columbus leaves Calpe and Abyla 29 behind, with the proud courage of Phoebus, destined by new arts to give man a new world; his youthful ardour advances his emprise even to the ruthless envy of a threatening fate. What old man, or what Hannibal, in fear of darkness for is only eye, fans the Suburra with his victorious standards? 30 What Milo strong raises the wrath 31 of oaks, when old age, weight heavier than a bull 32 presses him down? The while our hero bestowed eternity upon the sciences, he was found, in truth, a readier artist of his own sepulchre. 33 Calm speculation seemeth ecstasy, where by the winged mind, to gaze on the Ideas of Good, hastens to Olympus’ milky paths. In these abodes it tarrieth as its house, a stranger with its own. It comes again. Playfully it flies away; again it wanders and again comes back; at last in earnest stealing away it utterly withdraws. Even so the soul quits the moaning, wasting corpse; so does it bid it die.
Come then, ye Muses of Woe, and from the spurs of Libanus gather ye incense, let every star shower its sparks upon his pyre; be it a crime to light the pile of Kings with flame of Prometheus from a kitchen hearth. And if perchance some breeze more wanton should play about his hallowed ashes and scatter them flying, then weep ye; your tears will flow in sequent globules to mutual embrace. 34 Since then, the fundament of thy prison house is shattered utterly a second time, rise, happy soul, seek James; 35 show him that civic fidelity followeth even there. From the law’s tripod thou shalt utter oracles for Themis’ fosterlings. Thus, ye blest Heavenly Ones, may Astraea take pleasure in her ancient champion; or else, give ye Astraea back with Bacon.
R.P.

V
To the Memory and the Merits of the Most Honoured
Sir Francis, Lord of Verulam, Viscount St. Alban.
Mourn ye streams, with weeping troubled, ye that were born beneath the heel of Pegasus, and as your current can scarce drawn the black dust, run ye with mud profaned. And let Daphne’s verdant glory 36 droop and wither on leafless boughs. To what end Muses, would ye rear the useless laurels or a garden sad? Nay, rather, with the ruthless axe cut the stalk of the vain tree! He hath left the living for whom alone it was wont to bear a crown of bay: Verulam, gaining the citadel of the gods, shineth in crown of gold, and sitting above the boundaries of the sky he loves to see the stars making obeisance. The wisdom treasured in the Heavenly One’s abode, he begrudged the immortals, essaying to bring it back to mortals, restored for the world’s new adoration. No dweller of earth abounds in greater gifts of genius than he; nor does any of surviving men with equal skill wed Themis to Pallas. Moved by such talents, while yet he flourished, the sacred choir of Aonids 37 poured all their eloquence in his praise, and nought hath left for tears.
William Boswell.

VI
On the Death of the Most Honoured Sir Francis
Bacon, of late High Chancellor of England, &c.
Thou bold exemplar of how far the human mind may rise; thou talented deliverer of thine age; the while thou dost happily repair the meagre arts and ease free necks of their ancient yoke, how shall thy funeral be mourned, that now comes on? What tears do thy fates demand, what mean they? Did Parent Nature fear lest she lie naked while thy hand stripped her sacred robe? Were the world’s hidden corners bared to thine eyes, and did no cranny escape thy gaze? Or, can it be, did she who was betrothed to ancient lords, spurn the embraces of her newest spouse? Or, in fine, ruinous to the good and envious of endeavour, did she snap thy life’s threads, which rather should have been prolonged? Thus, that the Sicilian old man 38 might not soar beyond the crystal sphere, he fell by a private’s sword. Thou, too, Francis, hast for this received thy fate, that the forbidden task should not be finished.

VII
On the Same.
Some there are who, dead, would live in marble, and entrust their immortality to aged pillars; some shine in bronze, or glitter in yellow gold, 39 and while they cheat themselves, think that they cheat the fates. Another breed of humankind, surviving with numerous progeny, like Niobe unjustly scorns the great gods. But thy renown neither clings to graven columns nor does thy tomb read, Traveller, stay thy course. If any offspring should recall his parent, ‘tis is not that of his body, but such as Minerva, sprung from the brain of Jove. First thy virtue bestows on thee perennial monument: and second, not soon to perish, thy books: third, thy nobility. Now let the Fates hold triumph, who, Francis, having nothing of thee but thy body. Both thy better parts, thy mind and thy good fame survive: thou holdest it not dear to ransom the vile corpse.
T. Vincent, T.C. 40

VIII
On the Death of the Most Noble, Sir Francis,
Baron Verulam &c.
Once did I deem neither that so many virtues could dwell in one man, nor that they would ever die: with the which thy life shone like the heaven with stars, and which have all followed thine own fate, 41 genius and eloquence flown in generous stream, the glory of sage and of jurist too. I see now that this might have been, but friends, enough. If he shall not return, I think not that such traits will come again.
T. Vincent, T.C.

IX
Threnody on the Death of the Most Illustrious and
Most Eminent Hero, Sir Francis Bacon,
Baron Verulam.
Pour now ye Muses your perennial founts into a song of woe, and let Apollo shed in tears whatever even the stream of Castaly contains. For no humble dirge would befit so great a death, nor moderate drops crown this stupendous tomb. The Sinews of Wit, the Marrow of Persuasion, the Tagus 42 of Eloquence, the Precious Gem of Recondite Letters, 43 has fallen by the Fates (ah me, the three sisters’ cruel threads!) the noble Bacon, ah how can I extol thee greatest Bacon, in my lay! Or how those glorious monuments of all ages, chiselled by thy genius, by Minerva. 44 How full thy Instauratio Magna of matter learned, elegant, profound! With what light hath it dispelled the gloomy moths of ancient sages, creating new Wisdom and of Chaos! So God Himself with potent hand will restore the body consigned to the tomb. 45 Thus Bacon, thou shalt not die; for from death, from the shades, from the tomb, thy great Instauration shall deliver thee. 46
R.C.T.C.

X
On the Death of the Most Honoured Baron
Verulam, &c.
Look ye! In sooth ‘tis a great instauration! Again is Bacon, with radiant face, heard in the chamber of the stars. 47 Now in real robe of white, the most pure judge is listening, to whom, oh Christ, a stole dipped in Thy blood is given. To make himself complete, he first did doss himself. “Earth, keep the body,” quoth he, and hide him to the stars. Thus, doth the all-noble shade follow Astraea, and seeth now that very Verulam without a cloud.

XI
On the Marriage of the Roses.
The seventh Henry liveth not in bronze or marble, but he liveth, great Bacon in thy page. Mate, Henry, thy roses twain: Bacon gives a thousand. As many the words in his book, so many the roses, I ween.
T.P.

XII
On the Death of the Most Noble and Most Learned
Man, Sir Francis Bacon, Baron Verulam, &c.
Thus the rarest glory of the Aonian band is fallen! And would you consign the seed to the Aonian plain? 48 Let pens be broken and writings torn, if the stern goddesses may rightly do this. Ah me, what a tongue is silent, what eloquence now ceases! Whither is fled the nectar, the bread of thy wit? How doth it befall us, the Muses’ fosterlings, that Apollo, the master of our choir should be stricken down? If care and fidelity, labour or vigilance can nought avail, if one of the Three shall swiftly interpose its hand, 49 why set we many aims for us in this brief span? 50 Why strike off works that are buried in rotting decay? In sooth, the while we snatch others’ worthy toil from death, Death may hale us to his court. Yet why do I pour forth in vain these fruitless words? Who, when thou art silent shall desire to speak? Let no man heap thy urn with fragrant violets, nor set thy tomb in the pyramids’ pile. For thy laborious volumes preserve thy fame. This is enough: these monuments forbid that thou shouldst die.
Williams.

XIII
On the Death of the Most Honoured Gentleman, Sir
Francis, Viscount St. Alban, Baron Verulam,
Incomparable Man.
Desist: our grief loves eloquent silence now that he is dead who alone could speak, aye, speak things to amaze the circle of the well-born Eminent, and could loose the laws entwined about the anxious prisoner. A work immense. But, besides, Verulam restores our old arts, and himself founds new. Not so the ancients; for he with daring genius challenges the hidden nooks of Nature.
But she saith, “Stay thy steps, and leave to thy late grandsons some discovery, to gratify the younger age. Be it enough that our times, ennobled by these discoveries, boast of thy genius. Something there is which shall make proud the ages soon to come: something there is which it behoves me alone to know. Thine be the praise to have drawn the body with all its beauteous parts, whereto no man may restore entire members. Thus the unfinished work commends the artist Apelles, while no hand paints whate’er of Venus he has left to do.”
So Nature spake, and giving way to her blind rage cut short the thread of life and of his work as well.
But you alone, who dare to finish the hanging warp, shall know what manner of man these monuments enshrine. 51
H.T.
Fellow of Trinity College.

XIV
On the Death of the Most Noble Man Francis Lord
Verulam, Viscount St. Alban.
At length at thy demise, gay Death holds triumph with himself and says: Nothing greater than this man could I lay low. Achilles all alone mangled greathearted Hector, and Cæsar struck by one blow fell. To thee had Death given a thousand ills, and sent a thousand darts at thee. Can we believe that thou couldst else have died?
Thomas Rhodes
Of King’s College, Cambridge.
XV
To the Memory of the Most Eminent Man, Francis
Bacon, Baron Verulam, Viscount St. Alban.
Revealing Nature’s powers and the works of Art, potent himself in art, a man of England once 52 followed his quest in breathless zeal, Roger Bacon, in former times far famed. Who, uniting Optic Science with Chemical, with Physical, Perspective, these glorious emprises of the mind, liveth forever with the boon of glorious fame. Another man of England too attained renown, John Bacon, who unlocked the secret oracles of Sacred Scripture. Albeit the race of Bacon gave to the Britains many pledges, far famed in all the world, at last it bare our Francis. Whoe’er in genius was better born than he? What man of greater undertaking? Who with more wealth of eloquence? Who that revolved more thoughts in his mind? His writings show. In them with piercing judgement, he castigates the works of ancient Sages: in a little book, his great Instauration reveals its stupendous aims: The Histories of Winds, the Image of Life and Death. Who greater-souled than he unbarred Nature and the Arts? Why should I speak of each in turn, when many writings of great fame abound? A part of them lies buried; 53 that a part should see the light, Rawley, faithful Achates unto Francis, hath achieved.
Robert Ashley
Of the Middle Temple.

XVI
On the History of Life and Death, by the late Sir
Francis Bacon.
Thou writer of the history of life and death, Bacon, worthy late to die, aye, rather ever to live, why dost thou, extinct, so cherish the shades, and thus efface us with thyself, who shall not live after thee? Thou hast written, Bacon, the history of the life and death of us all. Prithee who shall write well the story either of thy life or death, ah who? Nay, yield, ye Greeks, yield Maro, first in Latin history. 54
Most excellent in both the spoken and the written word, and famed in whatever way, great at counsel and in the school; excelling too in Mars, if Mars could suffer art, and in every title, in every aim, more than a man. Despiser of wealth, the while he rates gold lower than the unsubstantial breeze, he changes earthly realms for the sky, and the ground for the stars.

XVII
On the same most Eloquent Man.
Let Utility look on him, 55 oh ye of better learning, 56 but add a bit of Ithaca, thou forger of tales, 57 and then thou shalt have all.
E.F.
Of King’s College, Cambridge.

XVIII
On the Death of the Most Cultured, and, too, Most
Noble Man, Francis Lord Verulam,
Viscount St. Alban.
The Day star of the Muses hath fallen ere his time! Fallen ah me, is the very care and sorrow of the Clarian god, 58 thy darling, Nature, and the world’s Bacon: aye, passing strange, the grief of very Death. What privilege did not the cruel Destiny claim? Death would fain spare, and yet she would it not. Melpomene, chiding, would not suffer it, and spake these words to the stern goddesses: Never was Atropos truly heartless before now; keep thou all the world, only give my Phœbus back. Ah me, alas! nor Heaven nor Death nor the Muse, oh Bacon, nor my prayers could bar the fates.

XIX
On the Death of the Same.
If thou shalt review how much thou hast given to the world and to the Muses, Bacon; if thou shouldst care to be a creditor, then love, the world, the Muses, Jove’s secrets, prayers, Heaven, songs, incense and grief will confound the score. What can art avail, and what the envious age? It is vouchsafed at last that envy should cease to be. 59 So Bacon, thou must needs preserve thy state and keep thy happy lot. 60 Ah, Nature has naught to pay thee.

XX
On the Death of the Same, etc.
If only the worthy, Bacon, shall lament thy fate, ah none will do it, there’ll be none, believe me, there’ll be none.
Weep ye now truly, Clio, and Clio’s sisters. 61 Ah, fallen is the tenth Muse, the glory of the choir. Ah never really was Apollo himself unhappy before! When shall he ever gain another so to love him? Ah me! The full number he shall have no more: now must Apollo be content with nine Muses.

XXI
A Song of Consolation to Both Academies.
If my prayers, ye Sisters, had with yours availed (ah me, our plaint hath come before its time!), not vain would be the contest of our love (for oft in love resides the strife of emulous devotion): we should have gained our own by our tears, and thee as well, Apollo, 62 yes thee, learned Bacon, the darling of thy fatherland. What could nature more, or virtue? Thou gravest thereby the meed of thine unending fame. When the wiser part of our age read thee, they swore that it befitted thee alone to speak forever. Him the too stern goddesses (ah me, what prerogative do they not claim at every turn!) have denied to us and to you. Worthy he was of the sky, but what prayers for such a man, that he still should tarry upon earth, can be importunate? Oh happy fate! Since ‘tis no blame, Bacon, but joyful eulogy to mourn thy death. Stay now, ye sisters, your just plaints and sighs. He cannot all ascend the melancholy bier. He was both ours and yours: a strife is thence arisen, and ‘tis in doubt which love the greater be. The grief is common, ours and yours: such ruin could not descend upon one place alone.
William Loe
Trinity College.

XXII
On the Death of the Most Illustrious Lord Verulam,
Viscount St. Alban.
While the hero of Verulam desired much to write, and showered the age with frequent volumes, death long looked upon the careful books in hate, nor could that accursed one tolerate so many works. For he hated talent’s enduring monuments, and the emulous writings that scorn funeral pyres. And yet, though thy fingers held the pen in poise, 63 and though the eloquent reed wearied thy feeble hand, though still unfinished was thy manuscript, which the last page had signed (since black Theta 64 was the flourish) yet shall thy writings, Bacon, live and reach thy descendants late in time, even in spite of death.
James Duport, T.C.

XXIII
To the Traveller who views the Monument of the Most
Honoured Sir Francis, Lord Verulam.
Dost think, stupid traveller, that the choragus of Phœbus and the Muses’ band is confined in this chill marble? Avaunt! Thou art deceived, Verulam now shines in ruddy Olympus: the boar, great James, now glittereth in thy sign.

XXIV
On the Death of the Man Most Illustrious and Eminent,
Both in Letters and in Sagacity and in
Native Nobility, Sir Francis Bacon,
Viscount St. Alban.
Not I, no not Ovid, were he alive, could pay the tribute of his verse, great Bacon, to thine obsequies. Verse comes when drawn from a mind serene: our breast is clouded by thy fate. Thou hast filled the world with thy works and the ages with thy fame: enter then, since it is so sweet, into thy rest. Aye, the exaltation of learning, 65 written, Bacon, by thee, exalts now thine own head throughout the world. Short is my song; nay, it is nothing. But if songs could restore thee to life, ah Bacon, how many would I give!
C.D.
Of King’s College, Cambridge.

XXV
On the Death of the Most Honoured Gentleman, Sir
Francis, Baron Verulam, Viscount St. Alban.
He that was governor of law, now from that law set free, himself is brought before death’s bar; thus does the realm of Rhadamanthus confound our own. He that at last had taught the greatest master of wisdom 66 to use a New Organon, constrained by death’s ancient mode, hath loosed his limbs. Verily Destiny, from most vicious premises, hath willed as the conclusion his last day, to show if sense or reason dwell in the unjust fates. He who disclosed many of Nature’s hidden things, to be revealed to not one age alone, himself to Nature, kindly Stepdame, hath paid his bounden dues. At last then he is fallen, filled with art’s richer vein, and dying shows how long is art, how fleeting life, and how undying fame. He who was the ruddy star in our world and through the great orbits of honour drove, hath passed beyond and shineth fixed in his own sphere.

XXVI
Burial Hymn.
Under the mound is the body (the grave’s unmerited prize;) the title of his virtues the outer marble holds. Thus hath virtue, making its impress on this marble, taught the pious stones to speak, the while herself prepares for flight. And our hearts, too, will offer an eternal tomb, that stones and men alike may speak his fame.
Henry Ferne.
Fellow of Trinity College.

XXVII
On the Statue of the Most Lettered and Truly Noble
Man, Sir Francis Bacon.
He that denies that thou hast numbered eighty Decembers, looks upon thy forehead, not upon thy books. For if hoary virtue, if Minerva’s garlands can make old, then waste thou Nestor’s elder. Yes, if thy features refuse, let the wisdom of the ancients show it, a certain token of thy lengthy life. For to live long is not to fulfil the luster’s 67 of the crow, but to have power to enjoy past life.
H. Nash.
Pembroke Hall, Cambridge.

XXVIII
On the Recent Flood.
Eridanus had unbarred his swollen waters’ streams. He had unbarred them: and to the nations, that was no slight alarm: fearing in sooth, the times of Pyrrha’s fell disaster, they thought the river grew with similar flood. That was but a savage sorrow, and tears for the coming death, an offering made ready for the newly sainted. In sooth, renowned man, thy fate moves streams to sorrow, not to speak of humankind and the sad hearts of men.
James.

XXIX
On the Death of the Most Honoured Man Francis
Bacon, Viscount St. Alban, Baron Verulam, etc.
Shall we then mourn for thee as well? Thou who couldst immortalize the Muses, couldst thou thyself, oh Bacon, die? Shalt thou then no more exult in the breezes of heaven? (Breezes and wind unworthy of thy writing!) 68 In sooth the rage of unconquered fate wished to be appeased at last by a more noble pyre, and fiercely spurning triumphs already commonplace showed all too well that this was in her power. Yes, this one day is conscious now of such a woe as the past year with its unwonted ruin was not.
R.L.

XXX
On the Death of the Most Noble Man, Francis Bacon,
Sometime Keeper of the Great Seal of England.
What? Hath strife arisen among the gods? Hath then old Saturn called Jove, his emulous son, to court, suing again for his realm? But having no advocate there, he left the stars, winning his was to the earth, where speedily he found him a meet man, Bacon, in sooth, whom mowing with his scythe, he forced to champion his suit before the angels, before his very self and Jove his son. What? Do gods need Bacon’s skill? Or has Astraea left the gods? So it is: she went away, and leaving the very stars was sedulously ministering to Bacon here. Saturn himself in no more prosperous ages passed his time, those that were given the name of gold in poets’ idle tales, then we have spent when Bacon was our judge. Therefore, the powers envying our bliss, wished to deprive us of this common joy. He has gone, he has gone, ‘tis enough for my grief to have uttered this much: I said not, he is dead. What need of black tincture: the Muses’ fountain will run dry, disporting in tiny tears, and April drips with many a cloud, thus intimating woe.
Immoderately rude, I wean, rages the brotherly discord of the winds: each verily stays not its moans, drawing from within a deeper sigh. Oh thou good to all, how all things seem to have loved thee living and to mourn thee dead!
Henry Ockley
Of Trinity College.

XXXI
On the Long Illness but Unexpected Death of the
Most Noble Lord, Viscount St. Alban.
Death first drew nigh, and then was driven hence. Methought he had repented of his errand and his crime. As the shrewd soldier deserts beleaguered towns, again to attack them when the unwary townsmen have discarded fear, Death in like manner, seeing him skilful to fend off the wound, struck cruelly when he had turned his eyes from the Muses. How would I fain waste my whole sight in tears: but, ah me, I guard my eyes for their own 69 books. Thus am I glad to send forth this page with mourning stains: no [Attic] salt is here, save what a salt tear gives.
William Atkins
Household Servant of his Lordship.

XXXII
On the Death of Sir Francis Bacon, Baron Verulam
And late Chancellor of all England.
Since Verulam’s hero, dying, hath brought to our Muses such sadness and wet eyes, we think, ah me, that no man can be happy after death; we think insensate the Samian old man. 70 He 71 verily cannot be happy when the Muses are abject, nor does he love himself more than his own Muses. But imperious Clotho 72 forced his struggling soul to heaven, and dragged him with reluctant feet to the stars. Shall then we think that Phœbus’ arts are fallen, that the herbs of the Clarian god 73 have lost their strength?  Such power had Phœbus, nor did those herbs lack virtue; believe it, he kept his art, and they their potency. But know that Phœbus (as he feared that Bacon should be King among the Muses) refused to his rival his healing hand. Hence is this woe. For while Verulam’s hero exceeded Phœbus in other arts, in this art was he less. You though, oh ye Muses, were ghosts and shade, and now well-nigh the pallid troop of the infernal Jove, if ye yet breathe, and have not mocked mine eyes (though I could not think that after him you could survive); if then some Orpheus shall bring you back from the dead, and you are not an image that deceives my sight, learn ye now groans and songs of lamentation: let many a tear flow from your eyes. Look ye, how many have flowed! I recognize the very Muses and their tears: one Helicon will scarcely be enough. Parnassus, 74 too, that was not buried in Deucalion’s waves, a thing of marvel, will hide within these waters. In sooth he has perished through whom ye live, he who hath fed the Pierian goddesses with rich art. When he saw the arts here held by no root and languishing like seeds scattered on top of the soil, he taught the Pegasean Maids to grow even as the spear of Romulus grew and in short time was a bay. So since he taught the Heliconian goddesses to grow, no ages will lessen his renown. Nor could the fire of a well born breast, bare further, divine Minerva, men’s neglect of thee. His heavenly reed 75 restored thy wonted honour; a second Apollo routed thy clouds. He routed the shadows, too: aye, those brought on by dusky old age and the blear senility of a former time. And other methods did his divine sagacity restore: he tore the Cretan skein away, but gave one of his own. 76  In sooth ‘tis clear that in antique days the troop of wise men had not such clear eyes. They were like Phœbus rising from the orient shore; he like Apollo shining at midday. They first like Tiphys 77 essayed the seas, but the bark scarce left the nearest shores; he discerning Pleiades and Hyades and all the stars, the Syrtes, and, Scylla, thy hounds, knows what is to be shunned, and on what waters to guide the ship; for him more certainly the mariner’s needle points the course. They begat infant Muses, he adult: they, mortal, but he goddesses. Therefore his Magna Instauratio snatched the palm from other books, and the sages, squalid throng, now slink away. Aye, even now Pallas steps forth, clad in new robe, as a snake glistens when he sloughs off his coat. Thus the new born Phœnix gazes on his paternal ashes; thus to old Aeson his pristine youth returns; thus too Verulam, 78 restored, disports its walls and hopes there from its ancient glory.
But how large shine his eyes, with glance more bright than that of a mortal, while he sings the sacred mysteries of the realm; while he so sings of Nature’s laws and Princes’ secrets, as though he were privy councillor of them both; while he sings of Henry, who King and priest as well, united in firm wedlock either rose.
But such strains are by far too lofty for our Muse. Let not unhappy Granta 79 know them, but the court. But since Granta moved her breasts to lips so eminent, she hath a right, thou mighty fosterling, to thy praise. She hath a right to quench the melancholy fires with her tears, a right to snatch thee from the mid-pyre. Yet, after all, our muse can bring thee no encomium; thou thyself art singer and singest, therefore, thine own praise. Notwithstanding we will sing thy praise with whatsoever art we can: and if art fail, this grief will still be eulogy.
Thomas Randolph
Of Trinity College.