THE ELEGY On that Reverend Presbyter Mr. WILLIAM JENKINS, Who Finisht his Obstinacy the 19th. of January in the Goal of Newgate, where are above Fourscore Dissenters, of almost as many of the several scattered Churches remaining.
In a Dialogue between Despair and Comfort: In Imitation of a former Elegy, in Dialogue between Faith and Sense.
Seiz'd and-supprest by Authority.
Despair.
PRisons accurst! and more accursed Law!
Why will you from the fainting Brethren draw
More mournful Notes, and from their Eyes more Tears,
Than all the Blood of almost twenty Years,
Which their Reforming pious Swords ere drew,
When the new Israel the Philistian Thousands slew?
Comfort.
Leave Murm'ring: his freed Soul has found Relief
From Two Confinements, both his Equal Grief;
Call'd by his great and potent Masters down
From a loath'd Hierarchy, and hated Crown.
Weep for thy self, for he's for Bliss design'd,
Leaving a Toryfied curst World behind.
Despair.
Lament I must and will in such a strain,
Shall wake even Nell and Bradshaw's Ghost again;
I will roar out, and with a Voice so shrill,
As even great TONYES mighty Court shall fill:
I'll call the Furies up, and summon all
Our aiding Friends below t'avenge his Fall.
Comfort.
Weep not; in Jayl he drew his latest Breath,
And Justice self's a Tyrant in his Death.
Great Charles his barbarous and lawless Doom
Was Good and Just; but if even Law p [...]esume,
Nay after a whole Age of Mercy, come
To touch the suff'ring Saint, 'tis MARTYRDOM;
Nor shall we want those Trumpets to declare,
How Rome and Hell 'gainst Truth and Heav'n make War.
[...]
Of Tears as large as fell that cursed Hour,
When Keeling's Sacramental Silence broke,
Or Burnett in the dying Russ [...]ll spoke!
Remembrance of our Dear Republick Raign,
And the old politick Game reviv'd in vain;
And this dear Champion laid in Honours Bed,
Calls all the Brine our Bloodshot Eyes can shed.
Comfort.
Forbear this dull Mistake; thy fruitless C [...]yes
Bespeak Impatience: 'tis but Jenkins dyes;
His transmigrated Spirit stays, you know,
To animate the Brethren Saints below.
His Death to us should but new Life afford,
Warm'd with th'old Glory, with th'old conquering Sword,
To fight the famous Battels of the Lo [...]d.
Despair.
Ah but he's gone! That word mo [...]e Terror brings,
Than the old Ax that cut the Throat of KINGS:
When Monarchs bleed, the Stroke's not worth a Tear;
But here our Loss does darker Mourning wear.
He's gone, who almost six and forty Years,
Preach'd up the Good OLD CAUSE in Sighs and Tears:
That Saint who in the Days of Reformation,
By his long painful Gospel-propagation,
So many Hearts, so many Hands could bring,
To raise the glorious Scaffold of a King:
He whose blest Labours could thus far prevail,
Finisht his Testimony in a Jayl.
Comfort.
Cease Exclamations; tho' his Race is run,
Dying before the finisht Work was done,
By Popish Noise and pious Oats begun.
Still constant in adhering to th' Intrigue,
Of th' ever blest Associating League.
His pitied and untimely Fate but draws
Thousands of new made Converts to the Cause.
Dying in Jayl, he loudly Preaches more,
More than in all the Tubs he thumpt before.
Despair.
If gasping Anarchy endures such Rubs,
When Cedars fall, what will become of Shrubs?
How shall the faintness of a strength so weak,
The Gown and Mitres Long loath'd Union break.
In Jenkins speechless Tongue does silenc'd ly,
A greater piece of Kirk Artillery,
'Gainst Tory Laws, Crown'd Heads, and Prelate Loons,
Than Colledge Flails, and Rumbold's Musquetoons.
Comfort.
No, we'll not fear an overthrow or harm,
Whilst Antichrist and Poperies long-tried charm
Shall raise us Bulwarks. Who can Leaders want,
Under the Bannors of the Covenant?
For tho' grim Death does home some servants call,
That Charm shall conjure strength to conquer all.
Despair.
But oh! what curst Infatuation broke
Justice and Laws long sleep, thus to provoke
The Royal Frowns to raise this fatal stroak?
See trembling Sion shakes. Can it be hoped
The Kirk can stand when it is thus unprop'd?
When thus our Corner stone to Fate must shrink,
Ah! how my troubled Soul's amaz'd to think,
How the whole fainting tottering Pile will sink.
Comfort.
No, All must die. In dust our Prophet see:
Nought but our Mighty Cause so strong can be,
As to claim Patents t'Immortality.
When the've done all, let Law and Power still frown
Like the dissected Snake, crush'd and run down,
We'll re-cement to sting the Church and Crown.
Could Peter thrice his Sovereign Lord deny?
Our glorious Cause that Spirit shall supply,
As shall three thousand times our King's defy.
Despair.
But oh! the heavy Law's a blow too sore
when even INDULGENCE was no less before[?],
What's TOLERATION without Sovereign power.
The Kirk Dominion lost, and King restored,
Was a sad stroak to'th Servants of the Lord.
When once the Pagan Organs play'd, too soon
All our Spiritual Hymns were out of tune.
Comfort.
There was a Time WE exercis'd the Rod
O're Heathen Strafford, Laud and CHARLES, when GOD
WITH US the Beatifick Rump empowr'd:
And heavenly Love in Royal Gore was showr'd.
That dear remembrance mitigates our crosses,
Whilst future hope shall ease our present losses.
Despair.
My Eyes must vent my grief upon his Herse,
And weep in earnest, tho' I weep in Verse,
When Absalom died, a Royal Tear was shed,
And with great Charles an Innate Mercy bred,
Mourns even to take a forfeit Traitours Head.
So must I take a priviledge to mourn,
A Shimei or Achitophel t' his Urn.
Comfort!
Dry up thy Tears, for whom thou mourn'st is blest,
In Death he meets the Whigs long Stranger REST.
Tho' turbulent against the Royal Will,
The Grave has laid the restless Engine still.
In Patience wait; our rip'ning Plots attend,
To mount the Cause, and Righted Kirk defend.
ACROSTICK.
Well now e'n Heav'nwards let thy Soul repair,
If thou art sure that no Lawn Sleevesare there,
Look to it Jenkins, for 'tis worth thy Care.
Lawn Sleeves 'tis certain no small power have show'd,
In keeping thee from Church, if not from God:
And more than 20 mourning years o're-past,
Mitre and Surplice broke thy heart at last.
Jn the old Days, the Blessed Directory,
Egypt's dear Flesh-pot, was thy Pride and Glory:
Now with the Liturgies long Manna tyred,
Kecking to peuck th' ore-straining Saint expired.
In Covenants and Holy Leagues long tyed,
No longer could the nauseous Taste abide,
So in a kind of a Scotch Qualm he died.
Sold by Walter Davis in Amen-Corner, 1685.