On the Death of Mr Calamy, Poem
ON THE Death of Mr Calamy, Not known to the Author of a long time after.
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 Univerſal Groan;
Afflicted London would then have been found
In the ſame year to be both burn'd and drown'd;
And thoſe who found no Tears their flames to quench,
Would yet have wept a Showre, his Herſe to drench.
Methinks the Man who ſtuffs the Weekly Sheet,
With fine New-Nothings, what hard Names did meet.
The Emp'reſs, how her Petticoat was lac'd,
And how her Lacquyes Liveries were fac'd;
What's her chief Woman's Name; what Dons do bring
Almonds and Figs to Spain's great little King:
Is much concern'd if the Pope's Toe but akes,
When he breaks Wind, and when a Purge he takes;
He who can gravely advertiſe, and tell
Where Lockier and Rowland Pippin dwell;
Where a Black-Box or Green-Bag was loſt;
And who was Knighted, though not what it coſt:
Methinks he might have thought it worth the while,
Though not to tell us who the State beguile,
Or what new Conqueſt England hath acquired;
Nor that poor Trifle who the City fired;
Though not how Popery exalts its head,
And Prieſts and Jeſuits their poyſon ſpread;
Yet in ſwoln Characters he might let fly,
The Presbyterians have loſt an Eye.
Had Crack—'s Fiddle been in tune, (but he
Is now a Silenc'd Man as well as We)
He had ſtruck up loud Muſick, and had play'd
A Jig for joy that Calamy was laid;
He would have told how many Coaches went;
How many Lords and Ladies did lament;
What Handkerchiefs were ſent, and in them Gold
To wipe the Widows eyes, he would have told;
All had come out, and we beholden all
To him, for the o'reflowing of his gall.
But why do I thus Rant without a cauſe?
Is not Concealment Policy? whoſe Laws
My ſilly peeviſh Muſe doth ill t'oppoſe
For publick Loſſes no Man ſhould diſcloſe;
And ſuch was this, a greater loſs by far,
One Man of God then 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 and Horſemen, ſtrength is gone.
I muſt ſpeak ſober words, for well I know
If Saints in Heaven do hear us here below,
A lye, though in his Praiſe, would make him frown,
And chide me when with Jeſus 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 made 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,
Then when poor Prelacy lay dead in its neſt;
For if a Collect could not fetch him home,
Charles muſt ſtay out, that Intereſt was mum.
Nor did Ambition of a Miter, make
Him ſerve the Crown, it was for Conſcience ſake.
Unbrib'd Loyalty! his higheſt reach
Was ſo be Maſter Calamy, and preach.
He bleſs'd the King, who Biſhop him did name,
And I bleſs him who did refuſe the ſame.
O! had our Reverend Clergy been as free
To ſerve their 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 reply'd.
For had he opened 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 Megrim 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, and breath out Prayers for thoſe
From whom he had that wound: he liv'd to hear
An Hundred thouſand buried in one year
In his Dear City, over which he wept,
And many Faſts to keep off Judgments, kept;
Yet, yet he liv'd, ſtout heart he liv'd, to be
Depriv'd, driven out, kept out, liv'd to ſee
Wars, Blazing-Stars, Torches which Heaven ne're burns,
But to light Kings or Kingdoms to their Urns.
He lived 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 Fever did expire.
This dy'd this Saint, of whom it muſt be ſaid,
He dy'd a Martyr, though he dy'd in's bed.
So Father Ely in the Sacred page
Sat quivering with fear as much as age,
Longing to know, yet loth 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 ſtroke 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.
The 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 Heavens door:
There his blest Soul beholds the face of God,
While we below groan out our Ichabod:
Ʋnder his burned-Church his Body lies,
But ſhall it ſelf a glorious Temple riſe;
May his kind flock when a new Church they make,
Call it St. Edmundsbury for his ſake.
London, Printed in the Year 1667.
End of the text · Robert Wild, On the Death of Mr Calamy (1667)