Life and Death of Henry Jessy, Elegy – Poem
A Pillar Erected to the Memory of that Holy, Humble, and Faithful Servant of Jesus Christ, Mr. Henry Jessey, who Rested from his Labours upon the fourth day of the seventh Month, 1663, in the Sixty Third Year of his Age.
IS Jessey Dead? How can this be resolv'd?
We grant you, the Compositum that's dissolv'd.
But for his Soul, it lives among the Blest.
His Body's but asleep and, and gone to rest.
If neither Soul, nor yet his Body dye,
Then Grave stand forth and shew thy Victory.
What though his Eyes are clos'd, he dwells in Light.
And Death hath only turn'd his Faith to sight.
Death hath but broake the Glass, that Refract rayes
May be no more, the Vision of his Dayes,
But direct Beams, in that Caelestial Place,
Where Saints behold their Father, Face to Face.
What though his Body, in the dust did drop,
It's but to raise him to a spirit'al Crop,
To make it fitter for to tune those Psalms,
Which Saints do sing that bear Triumphant Palms.
But if you'll call this Sleep a Death, then say,
Jessey is gone to bed, till it be day,
Till Christ shall wake him, that he may put on,
Like Glorious Robes to those, which cloaths the Son.
And with him on his Throne, a Seat obtain,
When Crowned Saints, over the Earth shall Reign.
But what was Jessey? that so great a throng,
Of Saints should Croud, to Ʋsher him Along
Ʋnto his Bed; could no less serve the Turne.
To draw the Curtans round about his Ʋrne,
But such a Number, which did seem to be
About his Hearse, Like to a Prodigie.
Why Jessey he was one, that lov'd them all,
And had this love repaid at's Funeral.
As in his Heart he had a General Love,
For ev'ry one, whose Birth was from above
So with a General Love he's compast round,
When he like Seed is cast into the Ground.
His short afflictions which on Earth have bin,
Such weighty Glory, have wrought out for him,
That though in largness, could our hearts arise,
Ʋnto the sand, which on the Sea-Shore lies,
Yet could we not conceive, much less declare,
That Glory, whereof now, his Soul doth Share.
His Fight of Faith is fought, ev'n that good strife,
And he hath laid hold, on Eternal Life.
The Conflict over, and and the Race is Run,
The Gole is Touched, and the Prize is Won.
His Course is finish'd, he the Faith did keep,
And having done his work, is fall'n asleep.
Then be ye Jessey's Follow'rs, as ye see,
Jessey did follow, Christ so follow ye,
That when with Jessey, you shall end your Dayes,
You may have nought to do, but sing forth Praise,
And look on Death, which is the King of Fears,
But as a Bridge, over this Vale of Tears,
To Land you on those Banks, along whose side,
Rivers of Pleasure, evermore do Clide.
And at the last Day, may be found to stand,
With Henry Jessey, at our Lords Right Hand.
An Epitaph on Mr. H. J. per incog.
AWake my muse, a Fathers dead and gon
Inspire my pen for lamentation.
Listen ye sons of men, ye Saints attend,
Whilst I the holy life of Jess commend.
A Saint, a man of God, and workman hard,
But now at rest receiving his reward.
In things both humane and divine his parts
Commenc'd him more then Mr. of the Arts.
In trifling sports, or jests, a common crime,
He did not idly waste his precious time.
Ʋnder an humble meekness, as a shrine,
His grace, and learning took delight to shine,
Ʋnto the seed of Abraham, Gods friend,
He bore a constant love, unto his End.
His lines ev'n to Judea had extent,
Ʋnto their poor a noble sum he sent;
Yet as his charity their bodies reach'd,
So the Messias to their souls he preach'd.
Pleading, as praying for their restitution,
Which God, ere long, will put in execution.
To Saints he bore an Ʋniversal love;
Chiefly to tempted souls, as Noah's Dove,
Ins mouth he brought an Olive branch of peace
Did often bate their pangs, their bonds release.
His useful visits still brought Gileads balm;
Amidst these raging waves, his brest was calm.
In prisons oft, by Babels Hyerarchy,
Yet never lost, by that, true liberty.
The number of his days, he learn'd to span,
And Christ at last the prize of all he wan.
Of Sions changes, he accounts did keep,
And sympathiz'd in all, until a sleep.
Of Idols, names, and thing, he found the track
Which to reform, he fram'd his Almanack.
That Scripture Calender, then so despiz'd,
Deserves to be reviv'd, and better priz'd.
Well, for the mourning Women we may call,
The Widdows whose support with him did fall
For though he never marryed any Wife.
Widdows and Orphans hung upon his life.
And as he expert was in holy tongue,
He's making now an everlasting Song;
Swanlike his lips, & life with warbling death
Sung sweetest notes of praise in dying breath.
What if deaths dart did us in Jessey wound,
The root of Jessey grows not under ground;
The root doth grow, above there all is sound:
That doth with everlasting fruits abound.
Finis.
End of the text · Edward Whiston, Life and Death of Henry Jessy (1671)