Saints Memorials, Elegy 1 – Epitaph 1
AN ELEGIE ON THE DEATH OF THAT Reverend and Pious Divine, Mr. EDMVND CALAMY, Late Minister at Aldermanbury.
ANd must our deaths be silenc'd too? I guess
'Tis some dumb Devil hath possest the press.
Calamy dead without a Publication!
'Tis great injustice to our English Nation:
For had this Prophet's Funeral been known,
It must have had an Vniversal groan;
Afflicted London would then have been found
In the same year to be both burnt & drown'd;
And those that found no Tears their Flames to quench,
Would yet have wept a shower his Hearse to drench.
A publike loss, a greater loss by far,
One man of God, than twenty men of War.
It was a King, who when a Prophet dy'd,
Wept over him, and Father, Father, cry'd,
O if thy Life and Ministry be done,
My Chariots & Horse-men's strength is gone.
I must speak sober words; for well I know,
If Saints in Heav'n do hear us here below,
A lie, though in his praise would make him frown,
And chide me, when with Iesus he comes down
To judge the World — This little little he;
This silly, sickly, silenc'd Calamy;
Aldermanbury's Curate and no more,
Though he a mighty Miter might have wore,
Could have vi'd interest in God or man,
With the most Pompous Metropolitan:
How have we known him captivate a throng,
And make a Sermon twenty thousand strong?
And though black mouths his Loyalty did charge,
How strong his tug was at the Royal Barge,
To hale it home, Great George can well attest;
But by himself his worth is best exprest.
Nor did Ambition of a Miter make
Him serve the Crown, 'twas for his Conscience sake,
Vnbridled Loyalty; his highest reach
Was to be Master Calamy, and Preach.
He bless'd the King who Bishop him did name,
And I bless him, you did refuse the same.
O had our Reverend Clergie been as free
To serve the Prince without reward as he,
They might have had less wealth with greater love;
Envy like winds endangers things above.
Worth, not advancement, doth beget esteem;
The highest Weathercock the least doth seem.
If you would know of what Disease he dy'd;
His grief was chronical, it is repli'd;
For had he open'd been by Surgeons art,
They had found London burning in his heart.
How many Messengers of death did he
Receive with Christian magnanimity!
The Stone, Gout, Dropsie, ills which did arise
From Griefs and Studies, not from Luxuries:
The Meagrim too, which still strikes at the head;
These he stood under, and scarce staggered.
Might he but work, though loaded with these chains,
He Pray'd and Preach'd, and Sung away his pains.
Then by a fatal Bill, he was struck dead;
And though that Blow he ne're recovered,
(For he remained speechless to his close)
Yet did he breath & sigh out Prayers for those
From whom he had that Wound; he liv'd to hear,
An hundred thousand buried in one year
In this dear City, over which he wept,
And many Fasts to keep off Iudgments kept.
Yet, yet he liv'd, stout heart, he liv'd to be
Depriv'd, driv'n out, kept out, and liv'd to see
Wars, Blazing-stars, Torches, which Heav'n ne're burns,
But to light Kings, or Kingdoms to their Vrns.
He liv'd to see the Glory of our Isle,
London, consumed in its Funeral-Pile.
He liv'd to see that lesser day of Doom,
London, the Priests Burnt-Sacrifice to Rome;
That blow he could not stand, but with that fire,
As with a burning Feaver did expire.
Thus dy'd this Saint, of whom it must be said,
He dy'd a Martyr, though he dy'd in's Bed.
So Father Eli in the Sacred Page,
Sate quivering with Fear as much as Age;
Longing to know, yet loath to ask the News,
How it far'd with the Army of the Jews.
Israel flies, that struck his Palsie-Head;
The next blow stunned him, Your Sons are dead.
But when the third stroak came, The Ark is lost,
His Heart was wounded, and his Life it cost.
Thus fell this Father; and we well do know,
He fear'd our Ark was going long ago.
His EPITAPH.
HEre a poor Minister of Christ doth lie,
Who did indeed a Bishoprick deny.
When his Lord comes, then, then the World shall see,
Such Humble ones the Rising men shall be.
How many Saints whom he had sent before,
Shouted to see him enter Heaven's door?
There his blest Soul beholds the face of God,
While we below groan at our Ichabod.
VnderUnder his burned Church his body lies,
But shall it self a Glorious Temple rise.
May his kinde Flock, when a new Church they make,
Call it St. Edmundsbury for his sake.