AN ELEGY ON THE Death of that painful Minister of the Gospel, Mr. JAMES FITTON; Who fell asleep in the Lord, the 12th. of this instant June, 1677.
DEath! Ah cruel Death; what damage hast thou done?
Thus to bereave us (now agen) of one
More of the suffering Servants of our Lord,
Whose tender hearts forbids them to accord
With Romish Superstitions, which they hate;
Alas, for us to mourn, 'tis now too late:
For Reverend Fitton, Learned, Pious, Bold;
Humble, Painful Preacher it can't be told,
How beautiful and glorious within,
He was much like the Daughter of the King
Of Saints, his spotless life in view of all can tell,
And Consciences awaken'd many, can yet well
Bear Witness to the keenness of that edged Sword,
Brandisht by him the heart all-searching word.
His Lords-days Morning Lecture, did declare,
What heart-affections to young souls he bear
Those that did early to the Vineyard come,
This Vineyard-keeper sent them laden home.
Those that in youth did cleave unto the Lord,
With great complacency he would afford
Help (by his Counsel) to proceed i'th'race
They'd undertaken, with a swift, sure pace;
A Universal Love to Saints, as Saints, he bore:
Woe and alas, we shan't enjoy him more.
Mourn you his Hearers all, and wait, and Pray
For Preservation in this evil day,
Now we have had such numbers ta'ne away,
Of those who lab'rers in Christ's Vineyard were;
Oh Lord, let new ones in their stead appear,
Full fraught and loaded with a double measure
Of gifts and grace: Oh that mod Heavenly Treasure!
Well Christians, know that though we have this loss,
And it adds weight, and magnifies our cross;
He has lost nothing, but is gone to see
His dear Lord Jesus, who hath made him free,
From what we yet endure, the Devils rage,
With Curs'd prophaneness of this monstrous Age;
With many more of the like nature, that
Do cause us oft to mourn; sometimes debate
The Faithfulness of God: This World's a Thief;
Stealing our hearts, but he has sound relief.
Me-thinks I hear him say, Daughters, don't weep
For me, but for your selves: I Sleep,
And Rest from all my Labours, in the Lord,
Whom I do find in all things worth His Word.
Oh Lord, free thine from such great Judgments sad,
That make the Righteous grieve; the Wicked glad.
These Tears we boldly sprinkle on his Hearse,
From mournful hearts, unfit to make a Verse.
An Acrostick.
James, art thou gone? And (behind) left us here:
Alas! Yet we'l rejoyce, thou dost appear,
Majesty to see, which on Earth thou did'st blazen,
E'ne when the times were Evil (a dang'rous season).
Sure thou by Faith did'st live, and not by reason:
Farewell, we need not bid thee now; thou art treated
In, or with pleasures, by him that defeated
That subtle Enemy (by his dearest blood)
That would have kept us from being ever good:
Or happy there, where thou art gone t'enjoy
No filthy pleasures, that our souls annoy.
James Fitton. Anagram.
See, I am not, fit.
Note, Sift, I am.
Blest James, thou art not fit, (as here thou wert)
But now, we Note, and Sift; yea, hope thou art.
Epitaph.
HEre lyes he that Conquer'd Death,
And Tryumph'd o're it while h'had breath;
And now he's gone Heaven to shew,
What Victories he got below.
By W. W.