Deaths Tryumph Dash'd: or, an Elegy On that Faithful Servant of God Master JAMES JANEWAY, Minister of the Gospel, who Resting from his most Zealous and Profitable Labours, fell asleep in the Lord the 12th of this Instant, March 1673/4.
HOw!
JANEWAY Dead! spare, Lord! oh spare thy Rod,
'Twill else too soon compleat our
Icabod;
If thus thou snatch the Pastors, who shall keep
From
Romish VVolves thy precious trembling Sheep?
If Night be coming, whither may they stray,
VVhen such sure
Watchmen are remov'd away?
VVe lost, alas! one
JANEWAY before,
Oh! when shall we have Two such
JANEWAYS more?
Men, whom Heav'n fram'd, and sent on purpose hither,
To win, and bring whole Crouds of
Converts thither!
Death's now grown Rigid, and intends't should seem,
To make our Teachers all Conform to him.
E're we can dry our Big-swell'd eyes for one,
Tidings surprize us, That Anothers Gone.
Hush then
Elegiacks! 'Tis in vain you come,
Sleight Sorrows Roar, but mighty Griefs are Dumb.
Behold! our troubled Hemisphere has lost
Another
Star, whose brightness might almost
Vie Lustre with the Sun, whose Heaven-bred Rays
Shot forth such Flames at Darkness, that our days
Unsoil'd with shades, might hope to overthrow
Hells Gates, and make another Heav'n below.
But now our Skie is darkned, this bright Star
Being Ravisht hence, our fainting
Israels Carr
Hath lost its nimblest VVheels; we change our Light
For gloomy Clouds, and loose our Day in Night.
That Star's remov'd, whose clear enlightned Head
Gilt every Eye with Flame, and often led
The wandring VVisemen of the world, to see
The Sacred object of a bended Knee.
For by his zealous conduct we addrest
To view a CHRIST New born in every Breast.
This was both his imployment and delight,
Oh! how (like Son of Thunder) would he fright
A stubborn Sinner! and an Earth-quake raise
In guilty minds, reflecting on their ways.
But then (not for to
break the Bruised Reed)
Like
Son of Consolation, he'd proceed
VVith Soveraign Remedies of Gospel-Balm
To heal the wounds, and such Soul-Tempests calm.
—Thus, would he woe, and plead for God, and then
Prove no less Orator to him for men;
As in the early morn a sprightly Lark
Springs from some Turf, making the Heav'ns her mark,
Shoots up her self through Clouds, higher and higher,
As if she'd bear a part i'th Angels Quire:
So would he rise in Pray'r, till in a trice
His Soul became a Bird of Paradise.
If our dull faint Devotions, prayers be,
VVe must acknowledge his an Extasie.
Knowledge (the depth of whose unbounded main,
Hath been the wrack of many a curious brain,
And from her yet unreconciled School,
Hath fill'd us with so many Learned Fools)
Had Tutor'd him with rules that could not erre,
And taught him how to know himself and her.
Furnishing his large soul in height of measure,
Like a rich Store-house of divinest Treasure,
From whence, as from a Sacred Spring did flow
Fresh Oracles, to let his Hearers know
A way to Glory, and to let them see
That way to Glory, was to walk, as He;
—Thus lab'ring as Heav'ns
Agent here below
For others good; His wasted Spirits flow:
His Mortal Life he freely spent, that we
Might gain a Life of Immortality.
Still Preaching, VVriting, every way he tryes
To Court the VVorld from endless miseries.
Admonishes the Old, instructs the Young,
And teaches
Children to speak
Sions Tongue.
But now his painful labours all are o're,
Methinks I see him welcom'd at Heaven's door,
By Crouds of Saints, sent there by him before.
—Hush then you Sighs! forbear you flowing Tears,
You storms and showrs of Nature, stop your Ears.
Let us no more with broken grov'ling numbers
Disturb his Rest, now rock'd in sacred slumbers.
Complaints are vain, subscribe to Heaven's will,
VVhen God speaks, tis Mans duty to be still.
He's
Dead! let's imitate his
Life, that we
Dying like him may
Live Eternally.
And Glorifie that God, whose dying Breath,
Made Man, whom Death had Conquer'd, Conquer Death.
The
Grave's our Common, and our truest
Home,
A House of Clay best fits a Guest of Loam.
Death's but the good mans sleep, for as our eyes
VVe close each night at Bed, in hope to Rise;
So should we Dye, for when the Trump doth blow,
VVe shall as easily awake we know.
And as we after
sleep, our Bodies find
More fresh in strength, and chearfully inclin'd;
So after Death, our Flesh scatter'd and dry'd,
Shall rise
Immortal and more purify'd.
This is our
Port, this is
Sins perfect
Cure,
Till
Lodg'd within a
Grave, there's none secure.
AN EPITAPH.
ASk you why so many a Tear
Bursts forth? Ile tell you in your Ear,
Compel me not to speak aloud,
Death would then grow too too proud;
Eys that cannot vent a Tear,
Forbear to ask, you may not hear.
Gentle Hearts that overflow,
Have only Priviledge to know.
In these Sacred Ashes then
Know, Reader! that a man of men
Lies cover'd, and Eternal Glory
Makes dear mention of his story.
Nature when she gave him birth,
Open'd her Treasures to the Earth:
Put forth the quintessence of merit,
Quickned with a higher spirit.
Rare was his Life, his latest breath
Saw, and scorn'd, and Conquer'd Death.
Thankless Reader! never more
Urge a why thus tears runs o're;
When you saw so high a Tyde,
You might have known
JANEWAY dy'd.
LONDON, Printed in the Year 1674.