MEMENTO MORI
AN ELEGY Upon The Death of Mr. Mason, LATE Minister of Water-Stratford, near Buckingham, Who departed this Life on Monday last, the 21th. of this Instant May, at his House, called, the New Noah's Ark, at Water-Stratford.
Licensed according to Order.
THE Buckingham Great Seer, that Non-parel,
The Moses t' his new wandring Israel,
Fame's mournful Trump brings the said News to Town,
Has his Mortality in Dust laid down.
True Moses like indeed, his Lifes last Sand
Too short to reach even his own Promis'd Land.
Strange sighted Priest of Fate, to have fore-known
The Worlds approaching End, but not thy own:
What though those loud Attendants on thy Death,
Wafted in Tempests thy expiring Breath;
Let Storms, or Fiery Chariots, wait thy Call,
Only we hope thou'ast let no Mantle fall;
No double-spirited Relique left behind,
No, in thy own great Self conclude thy Kind:
In thy Enthusiast mold no second cast,
Be an Original Prophet, first and last.
And what, though all thy Oracles mistook,
Have thy false Opticks read in Dooms dark Book:
Yet as that Heav'n has all thy Study been,
Thou hast truly sought, though falsly hast foreseen;
Since only erring Zeal has made thee stray,
Let not that innocent Meteor lose thy way:
But in Reward of Piety well-meant,
May the bad Prophet make not the worse Saint?
Yes, thou fond Visioner of Heav'n, for all
The Pious Pains thou'ast took for Gains so small,
(For easy 'tis to Dream, but hard to take
A Dream so sound, as never lives to wake)
Tho' thy great Pentecost now disappears,
And greater Empire of a Thousand Years,
Tho' thou hast look'd, and gap'd, and hop'd in vain,
A zealous Waiter for a Worldly Reign.
Thy Earthy Hopes all vanisht, may'st thou make
In Death, at least, this happier mistake,
Find thy self call'd by a more kind Remove,
T' attend a truer, Bright Crown'd Head above.
Such Bliss above may thy good Life bestow,
But what are the sad Rites thou meet'st below,
Here, Oh, what Funeral Griefs, what blubber'd Eyes?
Ev'n Joy it self, all droops, when Mason dyes.
The once sweet Chorus of thy Spiritual Grove,
All the whole Brotherhood of Song and Love,
Their Sanctify'd Hosannas all give o're,
The Timbrels sound, and Minstrels play no more.
Though their new Guide, and their new Canaan Land,
Both lost, thy poor Disciples must disband,
The Voyage to their Palestine fair Coast,
And their Jerusalem whole Cargo lost;
The Rams and Bullocks, once reserv'd to blaze
In flaming Hecatombs, turn'd out to graze,
Thy Water-Stratford Camp its Fame shall keep,
When Hounslows and Black Heath's forgotten sleep.
And now, for Monuments we'll build thee none:
Nor carve thee Epitaphs in Brass or Stone;
No, thy far talking Name has spread so wide,
As is its self its own proud Piramide.
Printed for A. Milbourn in the Little Old-Baily. 1694. ⟨192.⟩