AN ELEGY On that Faithful and Laborious Minister of Christ, M r FRANCIS BAMPFIELD, Who Died in Newgate on the Sabbath Day, vulg. Februar. 16th. 1683/4. Being in the 70th. Year of His Age. ⟨5. March. 1684/5⟩
WRapt in her mourning Weed, my grieved Muse,
To tune such heavy Notes, at first refus'd;
Rather desiring to effund her Tears
In secret, where no man nor sees, nor hears:
Till second Thoughts, Thoughts on so Worthy a Name,
With greater Energy and Power came,
And made her Tears in slow-pac'd Numbers fall.
To Sprinkle the Lugubrious Funeral.
Come skilful Mourners with sad Harmony
Embalm a Saints thrice Blessed Memory
With sighing Songs and mournful Melody;
In doleful Lines your pressing grief make known
Lines, stopt with sighs, and accented with groans,
Your watry eyes to streaming Riv'lets turn,
And bath with pious Tears his silent Urn;
That being impregnate with such Fertile showers,
It may at length produce some fragrant flowers,
Which may with Nature's Tap'stry cloth his Tomb,
And to all generations yet to come,
Convey an odoriferous Perfume,
While Brass and Marble Monuments consume.
Those Lips that Milk and Honey did distill,
And with sweet Balm our wounded Souls did fill,
Whence purest Eloquence did flow; Behold
How wan they are, appal'd with stupid Cold.
Those suppliant Palms that Faith did elevate
So oft to reach th'Eternal Mercy-Seat;
And oft return'd with bounteous Grace repleat,
Are now of Sense and Motion quite bereft,
And nothing but their languid Form is left:
Those Eyes wherein we saw Graces Divine
With Reverend Gravity so lively shine,
That oft did steep our Sins with precious Rain,
Are now with sable clouds of Death bestain'd;
That lovely Countenance, that gracious Face,
Which Nature with sweet Lineaments did grace,
And Grace refin'd; which to Beholders preacht,
And did with charming aspects Vertue teach,
Lo now what see we there, but Death alone,
Sitting in Triumph on his Pallid Throne!
Help
LORD, thou hast impos'd a weighty Cross;
Save us, a Faithful Watchman we have lost:
A careful Shepherd thou hast tak'n away;
Keep thou thy Lambs, or else they go astray:
Why dost withdraw thy precious Stars of Light;
And lead us in the dismal Shades of Night?
Shall we Physicians want to cure our Souls?
Whilst festering Sins wound us without controul;
And shall we pine for want of Living Bread?
Or shall our hungry Souls with Husks be fed?
O Heav'ns forbid it! Give us not Dross for Gold;
Let younger Prophets still succeed the Old:
When Fathers die, let Children still inherit
Their Fathers Vertues and Pastoral Spirit,
When our
Elijah's are assum'd to Heav'n,
Let young
Elisha's evermore be giv'n:
If thus, O
LORD, thou cut our Fir-Trees down
And lay'st our pleasant Cedars on the ground,
Where shall a Shelter for the Shrubs be found?
But since we have our Fate so long bewail'd,
Let Sobs be curb'd, and serious Thoughts recall'd;
Whilst rapt in holy Visions we descry
The Place where Tears are wip'd from ev'ry Eye,
With Faith's Perspective we may spie the Shore,
Whither our Faithful Guide is gone before;
We may on
Nebo's Mount a Prospect gain,
To view the stately Hills, and goodly Plains
Of the Celestial
Canaan; there we see
In Blessed Mansions Saints and Martyrs free
From servile Chains, keeping their Jubilee.
Lo! Christ his Servants home begins to call
In Anger, maugre all the Bars and Walls;
As if his Glorious Majesty disdain'd
That Mortals should his Messengers enchain.
Sleep then (Dear Saint) in Peace and softly Rest.
Till Christ resuscitate thy Quiet Dust,
To cloath it with immortal Beams of Light;
That with its Bright'ned Soul it may unite:
Mean while thy Soul doth learn to tune the Lays
Which Angels utter in their Hymns of Praise.
An EPITAPH.
Whilst I in Pilgrimage did Sojourn here,
Reproach and Captive Bonds did still attend me;
I spent in Prison more than twice five years,
A full sev'nth part of th' time my God did lend me:
But now being free of th'
New Jerusalem,
I've chang'd my Prison for a Diadem.
London, Printed for J. Lawrence at the Angel in Cornhil, 1684 Where Mr. Bampfields Works may be had.