On the death of Mr Calamy, not known to the author of a long time after.

On the death of Mr Calamy, not known to the author of a long time after.

Table of contents

ON THE Death of Mr Calamy, Not known to the Author of a long time after.

The EPITAPH.

§

[Page]

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.

Information about this book

Title statement

On the death of Mr Calamy, not known to the author of a long time after.

Wild, Robert, 1609-1679.

Edition statement

1667

Publication

Publisher

Text Creation Partnership,

Place of publication

Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) :

Date

2008-09 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1).

ID [DLPS]

A96486

ID [STC]

Wing W2144

ID [STC]

ESTC R35250

ID [EEBO-CITATION]

15087718

ID [OCLC]

ocm 15087718

ID [VID]

171567

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Series

Early English books online.

Notes

(EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A96486)

Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 171567)

Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 1581:24 and 2575:19 or 21241:29)

Source

— On the death of Mr Calamy, not known to the author of a long time after., Wild, Robert, 1609-1679..

Extent

1 sheet ([1] p.).

[s.n.],. London, :: printed in the year 1667.. (In verse.) (Attributed to Wild by Wing and NUC pre-1956 imprints.) (Item at reel position 2575:19 incorrectly identified as Wing (2nd ed.) P2691.) (Item at reel position 1581:24 is a reproduction of the original in the Harvard University Library.) (Item at reel position 2575:19 is a reproduction of the original in the Society of Antiquaries.) (Item at reel position 2124.1:29 is a reproduction of the original in the British Library.)

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