AN ELEGIE
UPON
The most PIOUS and EMINENT,
Doctor JOHN HEWITT.
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I.
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NAture and Reason both do plainly show,
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After an Ebb we must expect a Flow:
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Our late Experience makes this Maxime good,
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A Flood of Tears succeeds an Ebb of Blood.
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HEWITTs departure makes a Tempest rise,
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His ebbing Body left us flowing Eyes.
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II.
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Come then, my Muse, let's labour to distill
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Thorough the Limbeck of my mourning Quill
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Such hearty Tears, that truly may invite
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A Zealot to a perfect appetite
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Of Love and Pity; and let those that never
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Knew how to weep, now learn to weep forever.
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III.
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But stay, my Genius, will these captious Times
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Indure the touch of our Elegious Rimes
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Without a prejudice? Be therefore wise;
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This Age has reaching Ears, and searching Eyes:
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If thou offend'st, my Muse, be sure to borrow
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The priviledge to charge it on thy sorrow.
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IV.
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Since he is dead, report it thou, my Muse,
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Unto the World as Grief, and not as News.
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Hark how Religion sighs, the Pulpit grones,
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And Tears run trickling down the sensless stones!
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That Church which was all Ears, is now turn'd Eyes,
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The Mother weeps, and all her Children cries.
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V.
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Does Rachel mourn? Oh blame her not, for she
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Has lost her Darling in his Infancy!
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She looks upon it as a signal Cross,
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But knows that he has gained by her loss.
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She grieves, and hopes her griefs are understood,
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Her Children that suck'd Milk, may now suck Blood.
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VI.
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But hark! there's something whispers in my ear,
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A Famine in Religion now grows near;
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Her Zeal-parch'd Corn hangs down it's drooping head,
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And turns to dirt, which might have prov'd good Bread.
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How sad it is, that Children must not eat:
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Religion will finde Mouthes, but where's the Meat?
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VII.
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Ah sanguine dayes! When such tall Cedars fall,
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Danger draws near, and threatens Shrubs and all.
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The sensless Ax, that nothing understood,
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Cut off his Life, and dy'd itself in Blood.
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When Troy was burnt, the neighb'ring Towns did stand
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Expecting then their doom was near at hand.
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VIII.
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'Twas He, whose careful Zeal, and zealous Care
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Was alwayes lab'ring duly to prepare
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Religious Viands, that his Flock might be
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Not pamper'd, but well fed with Charity:
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But now, Ah now, he's willingly retir'd
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Where he'll be blest, as he was here admir'd!
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IX.
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Blest Soul! Since thy unhappy-happy Fate
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Hath so soon made thee more than fortunate,
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I will surcease my grief, and onely shed
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Some reall drops, onely because th'art dead.
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Nature, not Religion, makes us weep:
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Manners forbids a noise whilst friends do sleep.
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X.
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No more, my Muse, it is enough we know
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He is transplanted from this World below
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Unto a glorious Mansion, in whose Quire
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There is no fear of Plots, nor thoughts of Fire.
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That Court of Justice periods all his strife,
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And gives what here he lost; I mean, New Life.
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