The Life and Death of Thomas Wilson, Poem 1 – Poem 2
On the much lamented Death of my sincerely, honoured and beloved Friend Mr. Thomas Wilson Pastor of Maidstone in Kent, and to many more reverend Minister.
IF grief can help to versify,
And passion Poets make, I'l try,
Though long diceased, to sigh a Verse,
To offer at a Kingdoms Hearse.
And not sit mute in discontent,
Sorrow will kill, that hath no vent.
I could my soul in sadness sleep.
I could whole Floods of Waters weep.
I could as Niobe bomoan
My self, till turn'd into a stone.
I could become an Heraclite,
And spend in tears each day and night.
Or Hermit like to some close Cell
Retire, and say, Vain mirth Farewell,
Alas t'th World what can I view?
But what bid me, bid joy Adien.
I see Monsters of vice abound,
Ev'n Hell appearing above ground;
And Devils of the humane race,
Daring the Almighty to his Fate.
Such as can teach Nero to sin,
To whom no past Age hath equal bin.
I see the Shephards laid to sleep,
Who tender were of th'harmless Sheep;
Whilst ravenous Wolfs and Bears survive,
Who onelyonly to devour them strive.
I see to set the greatest lights,
And hastening on us dark-some nights.
All this I see and can't prevent.
And is't unlawful to lament?
What Marble is not wet with Tears,
When such a doleful change appears?
The great Assembly once renown'd,
(Whost fame in Forraign parts did sound)
Displac'd on Earth, in hast remove
Their Session to their House above.
Seraphick Twisse went first 'tis true
As Prolocutor, it was his due:
Then Borroughs, Marshal, Whitaker, Hill.
Gouge, Gataker, Ash, Vines, White, still
Sharp Swords scon'st cut their Sheaths, Pern, Strong,
Spurstow, Tuckey, Calamy, they throng
The Gate of Bliss, as if they fear
That Heaven would fill, e're they got there.
But why such wast, Death, hast no measure?
Dost think 't no Theft to rob the Treasure
Of th'Church? or art become so wise,
To seize first on the richest Prize?
Or are thy Laws so strict they can't,
The Benefit of th'Clergy grant?
Or is't thine aim to cast the stone,
Where thou mayst kill many in one?
Thou needst not shake the Pulpit Glass,
Look with what hast the Sand doth pass.
Their work though great, is quickly done,
And too soon out of sight, they'r gone.
They can't themselves who others save,
Nor though great Clarks, decline a Grave.
Scarce have I fully dried my eyes
For one, but straight another dies;
Now Wilson's gone, that gallant mind,
That lofty soul that thither inclind
Whilst here, and always did aspire,
To joyn with the Caelestial Quire.
Whose head a Living Library,
Whose heart the Ark wherein did lye
The Law, whose Prayers could Heaven storm,
Whose Preaching Sodoms did reform.
Oft did he break the stony heart,
Then bind it up with Heavenly art.
His Life the Gospel did expound,
And's Comment in the Text was sound.
Had I as many Mouths to fill
With's Prayse, as he in Tongues had skill,
All were unable to set forth
His great, his large, his matchless worth.
Had I his Grace, his guifts, I'd vie,
With a whole Kingdoms Ministry.
He's with the rest, the praise to Sing,
Of our most loving Lord and King,
These no dissenting Brethren be,
But all as one, in one agree.
One mouth, one mind, one heart, one way,
No strife, which side shall bear the sway.
(All doubts resolv'd, all knots unty'd,
All Truth i'th God of Truth espy'd,)
With hottest love they there embrace
Each other, full of perfect grace:
Their glory's great, their wealth is vast,
But oh the pleasure that they tast
I'th Tree of Life, and in the sight
Of that blest face, that's all delight:
What Tongue can tell? what mind can think?
What joy 'tis of this Spring to drink.
Go fawning World, tempt me no more,
With thy skin deep fading store,
Thy best, thy whole is but a Toy
To that these happy souls enjoy.
My God invites to Angels fare,
To which thy Trash cannot compare.
On Swinish Huskes why should I feed,
When I may eat what's Meat indeed.
Lord why should I contented be,
Whilst I am thus absent from thee.
Can there be day without the Sun,
Or bodies live when Souls are gone.
Thou art my Sun, my Soul, and I
Absent from that do daily die.
What do I here, when all's above,
That is deserving of my Love,
My God, my Christ, my Friends are there,
My heart, my hopes, what do I here?
O let my Heaven born soul expire
It self in sallies, and desire
Only to rest, and make its stay,
Where thou art all in all for ay.
O come thou down with speed to me,
Or take me quickly up to thee.
G. S.
Epitaphium Thomae Wilsoni, aliquando Madi Pastoris.
Wilsoni hic teanem Lectores cernitis rumbram.
Longe hac clava magis stella micausque fuit,
Sic fust in vitae Wilsonus sicque recessu,
Sic nobis detue vivere sleque mori.
Englished.
Lo here of Wilson but a shadow slight,
He was a Star of more illustrious light;
Such Wilson was in Life, such in his Death,
God grant we may so live, so yield our breath.
I Obitam Reverendi nec non Eruditi Theologi Thomae Wilsoni, olim Madi in Cantio Pastoris Fidelissimi Epicedium.
Quo fugis eximiae virtutis magne Sacerdos?
Doctrinae Princeps quo fugis? O quid agis?
Hostibus infestis pugnare relinquis agis,
Palma quibus celebris te Duce certa suit.
Dic quibus in terris habeant certamine duro,
Quae Natura tibi dona stupenda dedit?
Dic ubi cor largum, cerebrumque est, mentis acumen,
Ac tua lingua fluens, quove reperta loco?
Te coluere Patres, te quaeque Scientia norit,
Incaluere Artes servido a more tui.
Tullius alter eras, nec non facundus Apollos,
Doctrinae Decus, ac Religionis honos
AEtatis Phaenix, O terque quaterque beate
Ingenio, literis, sed Pierare magis.
Exemplum clarum probitatis, voce docebas
Et vitâ, omnimode sacra statuta Dei.
Sol velut innumeros radios jaculatus ubique,
Spargebas Tenebras luce micante ingras.
Te semel extincto, quam densa caligo secuta est,
Quantum nostra statim pectora noctis habent,
Napeo eras Terris summo sulgore coruscans,
Jam Caelis, nobis quám cito stella cadens,
Curribus igniferis rapide super aethera vectus,
Sedibus aeternis, est tibi plena quies:
Non tua maesta satis praesenti funera versu
Plangam, te lachrymis secla futura gemenr.
Te bene perpetuam famae meruisse columnam
Quis negat, at quinam marmora digna sciat
Solvo Parentales vitus, mihi chare Valeto
Dum tibi me miserum hinc, ultima sata vocant.
Sic slerit G. S.
REader, Lo here, a soul rais'd up so high
As if extracted all by Chymistry.
Nothing I see, but what I dare to call
(And without pardon) Quint essential.
His memory a Miracle to hold
The Testaments at large both New and Old.
His intellect so radiant, which can
Cope with the Sun, when i'th' Meridian.
So big with learning that in him we see
Not Student, but an Vniversitie.
His Graces when rais'd up and shew the bead,
Ours like Stars hasten for shame to best,
What Mortal ever own'd so blest a state?
Thus here on Earth, Heaven to anticipate?
FINIS.
End of the text · George Swinnock, The Life and Death of Thomas Wilson (1672)