A POEM On the Death of the Reverend Mr. Iohn Weekes, Late Pastor to a Congregation in Bristol, Who Dyed Novemb. the 23d. 1698. Aetat. 65.
By Mr. STANDEN.
Dignum laude virum Musa vetat mori.
Horat.
BRISTOL: Printed and Sold by W. Bonny, on the Back. 1699.
[...]
A POEM On the Death of the Reverend Mr. John Weekes.
WHen pow'rful Shades had chas'd the chearing Light,
And the chill
Horrours of the
gloomy Night
Invaded all the dusky Hemisphere,
And sable Atoms fill'd the lowring Air.
When deepest Silence weary Eyes did close,
And tempted Mortals to a soft repose:
[Page 2] In troubled thoughts, and Dreams abrupt I lay,
In vain retir'd from the noisy Day.
I wak't, 'till ominous Sleep return'd agên,
And to my eyes appear'd the dismal Scene.
Methought I saw the Great
Philander lie,
His dear
Irene pale, and weeping by:
Each Face, but his, a setled Grief did wear,
And all the Symptoms of a black Despair.
The force of long Disease could not controul
The Life and vigour of his generous Soul:
Nor all the Terrours of approaching Death
Could force a Murmur from his parting Breath.
Through all the rising Shades of Death I saw
Remaining Beams of Majesty and Awe,
[Page 3] Undaunted Courage fixt, and Joy serene,
And growing hopes of dawning Glory seen.
As when behind an Occidental cloud
The Sun does all his Ev'ning Lustre shrowd,
As he descends down to the Western Flood;
Yet through the watry Veil appearing fair,
With scatter'd Beams does gild the yielding Air.
So scorn'd he Terrors past, and those behind
Could not eclipse the beauty of his Mind.
And now the dreadful Shades more thick approach,
And on expiring vital Breath encroach:
And after all, in hast came close behind
The Universal Terror of Mankind.
[Page 4] The meagre Tyrant strait advancing nigh
Insulting lifts his fatal Javelin high:
Thrice he essay'd to strike, and thrice recoil'd,
Afraid such awful Goodness to behold,
Seem'd brib'd with Virtue, tho' ne'er brib'd with Gold.
The Sons of Hell with eager Joy he'd seize,
(With Carnage vast his hungry Maw t' appease,)
Who are condemn'd, when spent their latest breath
To endless pains, and ever-living Death;
On these his fierce resistless Rage he shows,
By these his vast extended Empire grows:
But seems unwilling to release the Just,
And send their dying Remnants down to Dust,
[Page 5] And their refined Souls, all gay and bright,
To the glad Realms of Joy, and endless Light.
Thus lingring long the King of Terrors stood,
Nor wisht to spill the Rev'rend Prophet's Blood;
'Till urg'd by the Almighty's Sov'rain Hand,
Who over Death has absolute Command,
Into the willing Breast his Dart he flings,
Depriv'd of all its Flames, and all its Stings.
He bows his head, and yields without controul,
And in a gentle Sigh he breath'd his Soul.
The fatal Moment past, without relief
I sunk beneath the pond'rous load of Grief.
The mighty Sorrows in my Bosom pent
Impetuous rose, too big for Tears to vent.
From off my Head the gaudy Wreath I tore,
Which for the dear
Almeria's sake I wore,
By her own hands fresh twin'd not long before.
A gelid Horror struck my trembling Heart,
And more than He I felt the Mortal Dart.
As when loud Thunders breaking from on high,
And forked Lightnings through the flaming Sky,
With massy Bolts the Rocks and Mountains tear,
And fill around th' astonisht World with fear;
The Earth convulst with hideous crashing breaks,
Recoils, and frighted to the Centre shakes.
To started back my Soul, 'till now unmov'd,
Though oft th' efforts of angry Fate I prov'd.
[Page 7] Sorrows on Sorrows rowl'd, and sore opprest
The sinking Powers of my wounded Breast.
'Till looking upwards to the Radiant Skies,
More joyous Objects met my wondring Eyes.
A Tract of Light appear'd serene and fair,
And shining Glory blazon'd all the Air,
Up to the Verge of Heav'n and Chrystal Gate,
At whose bright Entrance flaming Seraphs wait:
And all the way,
by Heav'ns dread King's command
Arrang'd in close and beauteous order stand,
On either side the numerous faithful Band,
(Nor dreaded they proud
Lucifer's alarms)
With massy golden Shields, and lucent Arms.
[Page 8] And in the midst, up to the blest Abode
The Glorious Saint all in gay Triumph rode,
High mounted on a gorgeous Chariot bright,
Whose dazling splendor crusht the wounded sight:
Saluted, as he pass'd the Heav'nly Crowd,
With shouts of Joy, and
Hallelujahs loud.
Thus through the Air, the dark confines of Hell,
Where the faln Spirits, and swarthy
Daemons dwell,
They swiftly pass'd, while trembling far away
Th' Infernal Legions fled th' approach of Day:
And mad with Envy, gnashing from afar,
They groveling prostrate lay in pannick fear,
And foam'd and rag'd and shook their
Snaky hair.
[Page 9] Mean while the pompous Triumph made its way
To the fair Entrance of Eternal Day.
Ten thousand thousand
Angel-Trumpets sound,
And the vast Realms of Heav'n all eccho'd round.
My feeble Sight no longer could pursue
The glorious Vision now beyond my View.
This Scene a while my Sorrows did restrain,
'Till all the gloomy Thoughts return'd again.
In vain, alas, I rov'd from place to place,
My Terrors with my flight kept equal pace,
I wander'd to a Grove, whose darksome shade
Might seem a fit Recess for Sorrow made:
[Page 10] Where in the midst a Temple great appear'd,
With lofty Head on
Dorick Pillars rear'd;
Whose wide and open Portals did display
A vast Assembly on the solemn Day,
The solemn Day, when from the
sable Chair,
With Artless Sighs, and with a mournful Air,
Divine
Cleander to the Crowd addrest,
With Voice, and Gesture, Passion deep exprest,
And stirr'd fresh Grief in ev'ry troubled Breast:
For as the vast and publick Loss he show'd,
From numerous Eyes the briny Currents flow'd.
In pensive Shades from hence retir'd I sate,
And thus I mourn'd inexorable Fate.
Farewel, Farewel, the Dearest, and the Best,
From this vain World gone up to endless Rest.
The brav'st, the faithful'st Friend I ever knew,
Always caressing, and yet always true.
No more shall I behold that chearful Face,
Nor see that awful Majesty and Grace.
No more the charming Prophet's Voice attend,
And Pray'rs to Heav'n no more together send.
No more shall he sad Hearts with Joy inspire,
Nor kindle frozen Souls with Heav'nly Fire.
No more shall he, with Noblest Zeal possest
Conduct the Righteous to Eternal Rest.
No more shall he pronounce the dreadful Word,
Nor brandish up aloft the flaming Sword,
[Page 12] The
Sword of God, nor tell the Joys above,
And all the Pleasures of that World of Love.
No more shall he the wicked Rage oppose,
Nor plead the Orphans and the Widdows Cause;
No more shall others Sorrows break his Rest,
No more shall help the Injur'd and Opprest.
No more shall we in sweet Converses walk,
No more of high Caelestial Wonders talk;
Untill the last
Archangel-Trump shall sound,
"To raise the sleeping Nations under Ground:
And the Great God in flaming Vengeance come,
To speak to all the World the final Doom.
Then may I see the Mighty Prophet's Face
With a more God-like Air, and Heav'nly Grace:
Then may We with redoubled Gladness meet,
May I his State with loud Applauses greet,
And sit beneath the
Great Philander's Feet.
And now the gloomy Shades were chas't away,
And fled apace before the coming Day:
Yet blacker still the Scene of Horrour grew,
I wak't and found the fatal Vision true.
FINIS.