MEMENTO MORI
AN ELEGIE To the Indeared Memory OF THAT Learned and Reverend Minister of the Gospel Dr LAZARUS SEAMAN, Who died on Friday the 3d. of September 1675, and was carried from Drapers Hall to be Interred, with a numerous Train of Christian Friends bewailing his Death.
Historians tell us, when Masistius di'd,
So much he was belov'd, that all the Pride
And Flower of famous Carthage, for his sake
Did sympathizing Robes of Sables make,
And broke their City-Bulwarks, that the torn
And shattered flints might with the people mourn.
So when the brave Vespasian took his leave
Of Earth, how did the valiant Romans grieve
In Universal Groans! The News we finde,
Titus is dead, the darling of Mankinde.
And shall meer Heathens such kindeness bestow
On a poor glimpse of Vertue, and we show
No just Regret for One, whose pious Soul
All Vertues and all Graces did inrol?
A Saint is greater than a Hero far;
One Man of God's worth Twenty Men of War.
Poor Conquerours are they, who after all
Their great Atchievements, by their Passions fall.
But Reverend Seaman did himself subdue;
Himself, the greater Conquest of the Two.
How great his Triumph! that o'ercame the evil
Mischievous World, fond Flosh, and crafty Devil;
And both by Doctrine and Example too,
Taught us what in those Conflicts we should do.
At such a loss all our Delights should turn
To Grief, and Mirth it self beforc'd to mourn:
Sighs should ingross our Breath, till there appear
A general Sorrow Limbeckt in a Tear.
The Arts and Lenguages, with every trick
Of subtile Logick, and gay Rhetorick,
Long since he understood; yet would not they
His well-poiz'd minde to proud Conceit betray.
'Midst all his Studies, 'twas his onely pride
To know the Truth, and Jesus Crucify'd.
So that his parts acquir'd, did humbly shine,
And taste like Water turn'd by Christ to Wine:
Knowledge and Zeal in him so sweetly met,
His Pulpit seem'd a second Olivet;
Where from his Lips he would deliver things,
As though some Seraphin had clap'd his Wings.
His pow'rful Sermons were so fitly drest,
Each Hearers Soul seem'd toucht, each thought exprest.
Oh! what a sacred Surgeon has he been,
To set a Conscience out of joynt by Sin!
He at one blow could Wound and Heal: We all
Wonder'd to see a Purge a Cordial.
His Manna-breathing Sermons often have
Giv'n all our good thoughts life, our bad a Grave.
He did not onely Tax, but Shame abuse,
His Practise being still his Doctrine's Ʋse.
He liv'd his Sermons: the profane were vext,
To see his Actions Comments on his Text.
His Vertues so Instructive did appear,
As if each place to him a Pulpit were.
His presence so Divine, that Heaven might be
Now (were it possible) more Heavenlie.
Triumphant Soul! whose happy Race is run,
Thy Warfare ended, and thy Conquest won;
Whilst we poor Mortals here survive in toil,
And still Encounter, oft receive a Foil.
Thou wear'st the long White Robe, whilst we remain
Polluted so, each moment addes a Stain.
Thou hast th' Immortal Crown, read'st the new Name;
Our guilty Faces cover'd still with Shame.
Thou rais'd to Heaven, We grovel here below;
We Sin and Sorrow, Thou dost neither know.
So different our Estates, yet ne'retheless,
We envy not, though towards one State we press
It is thy Bliss, thou changed art, made free;
It is our wish to Change, and be like thee.
Nor's Scaman dead, but with endless life Crown'd,
Where never-fading Glories do abound.
His Works survive, a President to be
Both unto us, and to Posterity;
There he speakes yet, though dead, to dry the Tears
Wherein the loss of such a Worth appears:
And further seems to say, You that affect
My Memory, [...] ever do expect
To see my Face, pursue that happy Tract
Wherein I walk'd, and do as I did act;
So shall my Death the best be Elegiz'd,
Jehovah prais'd, and your Faith Exercis'd,
Till we shall meet, where I shall shine more bright,
For having been a Star to give you Light.
FINIS.
London: Printed for D. M. in the Year 1675.