Saints Memorials, Elegy 2 – Epitaph 2
LONDONS LOSS: OR, An ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF THAT Reverend Servant of God, AND Minister of Christ's Gospel, Mr. IOSEPH CARYL, Late Minister at Magnes London-bridge.
ROom for our Tears; for here are thousands come
To vent our Founts at his commanding Tomb.
But oh what Mortals Genius can devise
A decent Flood for such a Sacrifice?
His Pious worth must in our Hearts be writ,
For 'tis above the reach of Head, or Wit.
Happy's that earthly Closet keeps in trust
The Reliques of a Saint now turn'd to dust.
'Tis one whom flatt'ry knows not how to paint
Londons Divine, and Londons Magnes Saint.
See, see, the day by sable Clouds orespread,
And bids us Weep, for Caryl now is dead;
But by and by, do's seem to say, This Globe
Could not detain him from his patient Job.
Calamy went before, but there's no odds,
Since each design'd to be a Child of God's.
Observe the hours, how striving to retire,
Caryl, and Comfort, seeming to expire,
Bids Night and Nature hang the Vniverse
With Black, due Obsequies for such an Herse.
He ne'er was cruel to exhaust a Tear;
All Weeping was reserv'd to spend it here:
Those flattering Arts which Poets use, to save
Decaying Reputations in the Grave
Are here but vain, for no Hyperbole
Can tell the World how great his Merits be.
And Chronicles themselves can say no more
Than what his Learning told the World before:
His Pious Sermons did declare his worth,
His Expositions set his Learning forth;
And whilst we here lament his being gone,
Angels with Anthems welcome him at home,
And I my self a Catholick could be
At least to Pray to such a Saint as he.
Caryl, whose Conversation, free from ill,
Can be express'd but by an Angel's quill:
As in some mirrour you might clearly see
In him, a perfect Map of Piety;
The Beauty of whose Vertues may incite
The World to imitation and delight.
Let us lament our loss, and blame his fate
For not allowing Life a longer date.
Reverend Caryl, may his Vertues shew
As bright hereafter, as they're Glorious now:
Who when he through this Earthly Globe had past,
He dy'd, left he should idle grow at last;
For when grown Ancient, he would even then
Both study Piety, and use his Pen:
He like an Artist did true Patience paint
To us on earth, now to some Glorious Saint
He shews the same, who can no longer cease,
That, to extol, as Caryl's Masterpiece.
His EPITAPH.
HEre lies the Earthly Carkass of a man,
Whose life too justly may be call'd a span;
He liv'd converting those that went astray,
But Death now snatcht this Heav'nly Guide away:
Then careful Earth, unto his Corps be just;
A Divine Soul was once within his trust.
But being call'd away, it now is flown
From hence, to take Possession of a Throne.