The Saints Transfiguration, Epitaph 1 – Epitaph 5
TO THE Memory of the Right Worshipfull SAMVEL BOLTON, D. D. late Master of Chr. Coll. in Cambridg.
COme, let our Petty brooks of sorrow fall
Into a full swolne stream of generall
Sadness, in pursuit of that blest soul hence
Put off to the eternal confluence
And Ocean of goodness; Happy he
Whose grief is swallow'd in that blissefull sea.
Weep we once more (whose Fathers hast'ned death
And Church-estate expiring with their breath,
Make us a lower sort of Orphans) we
Who found in Him still freshest memory
Of whose we were, that tenderness of heart
Which the deceased spirits seem'd to impart.
And yet nor we nor she (from whose torn breast
Death snatcht away th'indearing close lodg'd guest,
Untimely, misaccounting his years summe
And hudling up in's life, dayes yet to come.
Such were our hopes, and such the promises
Of a firm tempers seeming healthfulness.)
Nor we nor she to private loss must pay,
What we should in the common treasure lay.
In universaller calamity,
There's sacriledg in such a privacy.
Such is the fright when the main body flies
Or gives ground, or when a Souldier spies
A breach in the chief-fortress; so were we
(Who fanci'd a blest perpetuity)
Appaled when we saw his strength decline
Whom we wisht as immortal as divine.
The Colledg scarce could hear't, though by degrees
We were dril'd on into our miseries.
Was it death's mercy, or deaths cruelty?
That we might feel, or fit our selves to dy?
We languish'd all the while in him, at last
Into th'Dead Colledg all our Fellow's past.
This grief's too straight still, and he little knew,
What the World ow'd, that thinks his tears undue.
Doth not, if such a part of goodness fall,
Goodnesses common spirit convey to all
A members sadness? I'n't the Church throughout
Its body pained when an Eie's put out?
Where shall we now such a meek Moses finde
To recall wrangling Brethren to one minde?
Many will help it on, but who'le bemoan
A sad Church rent into division?
'Twas the work of a soul, as his, orecome
With benigne sweetness, such a one in whom
Dwelt th'image of full Goodness, as above
Calme and serene in its firm peace and love.
One to the World so dead that evermore
In the worlds things he seem'd stept out of doore,
As one that's gone for some few hours abroad,
Or whom some small affairs call out of's road.
Then was he at his home, then onelyonly free
When the employment was pure heavenly.
How naturally in spiritual discourse
Was his speech fluent, ready, without force
And unaffected, one might safely say,
Then he was in his temper, in's own way.
Like him who tyred with a barb'rous sound
In a strange country, happily hath found
One of his natives: now he may reflect
On his own home in's well known dialect.
View his divine attendance, his soul prest
On messages to Heaven, and addrest
To his immortal Fathers, not with words
Which malapert Buffons speak to their Lords:
Nor peremptory sauciness, built on
A fond God-levelling communion.
But in beseeming reverence. By and by
(As toucht by'illapses of Divinity)
Rais'd into heav'nly ardors: while just as
Bodies mov'd swifty, along where they pass
By their own violence impress a motion
Ev'n on by-standing dulness. His devotion
Rouz'd and enliv'ned all the neighbour hearts
By holy-magick touch more then the arts
Of Pulpit-Orators, more motive he
Snatcht our souls up by vigorous sympathy.
Such was his zeal, a fire not nourished
By earthy matter, purer then what's fed
By popular applause and basest gain,
His zeal was of a farre more heav'ly strain.
It ner'e gave fire to Cannon, nor did light
Musquitiers matches: in no civil fight
Was it a conduct, or ere serv'd in flame
To burn dissenters bodies or their Name.
Such searching fires earths mixture do proclaime▪
When, like some wandring fires, from book to book
Skipt it? From Paul to Littleton or Cook?
'Twas pure and steady, powerfull, nor fierce.
By gentleness it had the might to pierce
A sinners heart, asham'd to see more sense
In him then in himself who did th'offence.
In preaching, prayer and life we well might see
Divineness: Man now, in mortality.
Plead not, blest soul, against us, that th'art gone
As tyr'd with us dull to be wrought upon.
That thou mad'st hast impatient of our stay
Who fondly loytring would not hie away.
'Tis but our guilt, Hee's more Good now, nor farre,
Christs-Colledg Keeper still and Tutelar.
J.SEDGWICK. Chr. Col. C.
An Epitaph on the truly Religious and Learned Doctor BOLTON Master of Christs Colledge in Cambridg.
TYr'd with a Body, and the Age, here lyes
One that was Holy, Learned, Just, and Wise;
Liv'd when the Court seem'd heavy, and the See
Grew proud, yet Patience preach'd and Modesty.
Though Fears urg'd Fears, and Hope pursued Hope,
Pulpits 'gainst Pulpits bandied, yet the scope
Both of His Text and Life was peace; fair Peace!
Heaven's Legacy, the busie world's scorn'd Ease!
By taking Care of Souls He did not mean
Providing Lordships for his heirs; so clean,
So spotless were his Aimes: his greatest store,
Was Love and Praise; Promotion made him Poor.
'Twas not the practise of his Zeal to Grone
Against Plurality and neglect his One.
His Matter alwayes did become the place,
Diurnals never turnd the second Glasse.
Call'd from the City, he succeed One
Turnd out by Death, Fates Sequestration:
Which Place he serv'd with chearfull Love and Care,
Firm Justice, open Candour, hearty Prayer,
(Free from base shriveled Faction, hungry strife,)
Ev'n to the loss of Riches, Health and Life.
Stay, Reader, and bestow a Tear
On this Dusty Fruitfull Bed,
The Spring will then dwell alwayes here,
And Violets ner'e hang the head.
Pray, the Earth may lightly presse
Her entrusted Urne below;
May the same prayer thy Reliques blesse,
When they shall rest, as his do now.
T. STANDISH.
Upon the Death of the Pious and Learned SAMUEL BOLTON, Doctor of Divinity and Master of Christs Colledge in Cambridg.
NOt that my gadding Muse affects to shew
Her courser beauties to the common view;
Not that she thinks such harsh ill-tuned Layes,
As hers, are fit to celebrate thy praise;
Dares she present these verses; but as they
Who hundreds hold of others, yet do pay
Nought but a Pepper-corn: by this she showes
Though she brings little, yet 'tis much she owes
To thy dear Memory and honour'd Name,
Immortal BOLTON, Heir of lasting Fame.
Whose known deserts and unreproved worth
Needs not her slender skill to blaze it forth:
But can commend it self to after-times
Without the help of Elegiack Rimes.
Though others under brasse and marble plac'd,
Keep not their Names and Titles undefac'd;
Though Monuments themselves decay, and must
Confess their ruins, and resolve to dust;
Though all things else be subject to the Laws
Of fickle Change and Times devouring jaws;
Yet wisdome hath a ne're decaying root
And vertuous pains bring everlasting fruit:
And they that labour'd have and liv'd like Thee,
Their Names shall last to all eternity.
Nor seems it strange that vertuous men should best
Oblivion scape, which oft involves the rest
Of things and persons, whose poor low desires
Are not affected with such high aspires.
The Principles by which most men do move
Are private Interest and base self-love:
So farre their friendship and their hate extends
It self, as serves their own contracted ends.
Hence as that Earth-begotten brood which grew
From teeth which Cadmus in the furrowes threw,
Within a while by civil discord slain,
Return'd unto her Mother earth again
And scarce left any token to appear
To tell th'ensuing age that once they were:
So bad men quickly vanish, and are gone
Buried in earth and dark oblivion.
But those like thee whose more enlarged breast
With better thoughts and purer fire's possest;
Who make themselves no scope to which they bend
Their actions but the common good attend;
Cannot pass unregarded hence but Fame
Ennobles and perpetuates their Name.
Who ere did to the infant world impart
Some signal benefit or usefull art,
Had Temples built unto him: Hence arose
Ceres and Bacchus and such gods as those.
Would truth dispense and piety admit
Of such like Deities, 'twere farre more fit
T'account Thee one then those that taught us how
To tread the winepress first and hold the plow:
Since this grand difference 'twixt thee we finde
And them; they fed the body thou the minde.
Wm W BRYCHE.
On the deplored Death of the Reverend Doctour SAMUEL BOLTON Master of Christs Colledge in Cambridg.
TO mourn in verse, and write an Elegie,
Is even grown as common as to die;
Poëtick sorrow serves but for a mask
To other passions; 'twere an easie task
For grief that's feigned, or at best but fain'd
To boast it self in eloquent complaint.
But where internall sorrow hath possest
The very vitals, and corrodes the breast
With inward care, where the oppressed heart
Doth inly languish with consuming smart;
The soul is choaked, and the spirits spent
With mutual conflict, e're they finde a vent.
Such reall anguish, such unfeigned grief,
Doth scarce admit the pitifull relief
Of sighs and tears; such dolour scarce affords
Imperfect sentences, and broken words.
The case is ours, whom sorrows violence
Hath strongly touched with a vigorous sense
Of our calamity: whose deep distress
Our mindes with grief astonish'd can't express.
No wonder then in so just cause of tears
And sad complaints, so little pomp appears
Of mournfull Elegies, and funerall songs;
This loss doth more affect our hearts then tongues.
Our sincere mourning seeks not after fame
In these iust Rites; let others then proclaim
Their forced sorrow with exalted cries,
Our reall grief makes silent Obsequies.
W. LEIGH.
Upon the Death of the Reverend, his never to be forgotten Friend, Dr BOLTON Master of Christs Colledge in Cambridg.
IS BOLTON dead? and shall not England weep,
That we no longer such a Saint could keep.
Alas! the world not worthy was of Thee,
The Saints above did want thy companie.
Thy virtues, graces, praises, and thy worth,
No tongue alive is able to set forth.
Thou wast a burning, and a shining Light
In this ovr Orb; few left which shine so bright.
Thy Minister' all Gifts, thy Zeal, were rare
Thy Piety, no less thy gifts in Pray'r.
And in a word (Blest Soul!) Thee to commend;
Thy Praise knows no beginning nor no end.
JOHN CROFTS Minist. C. C. C.
FINIS.
End of the text · Edmund Calamy, The Saints Transfiguration (1655)