University of Virginia Library

AN ELEGY On the Death of that Learned, Pious, and Laborious Minister of Jesus Christ MR. RICHARD BAXTER, Who departed this Mortal Life on the 8th Day of December, 1691.

How hardly we sad doleful Truths believe!
And though prepar'd, unwllingly we grieve.
But here's a Subject calls for Floods of Tears,
For who of Baxter's late Departure hears,
But is prepar'd to Weep? Yet Tears are vain,
Not us they profit, nor that happy Man
Who from the Vale of Sorrows is remov'd,
Baxter so much Esteem'd, Admir'd, Belov'd,
Whose pious Words which from his Mouth did come,
Distill'd with Sweetness like the Hony-Comb,
Is silent—Yet that Word I must recal,
Tho' Dead, his Words yet speak unto us all.
Who can attempt the Subject of his Praise?
All we alas! can say, are faint Essays.
But still Respect to's pious Worth is due,
We cannot flatter, but we must be true:
Learn'd tho' he was with all that Human Skill,
Which empty Heads with Wind too often fill,
Yet humble without Pride—his Learning he,
Still made the Handmaid to Divinity;
Those Parts which other Men so much abuse,
He still improv'd to a Religious use,
Witness his Works in which tho' Learning shine,
Yet serv'd as Foils to set off Thoughts Divine.
But who his Heavenly Piety can paint?
He did not seem, but surely was a Saint:
His private Notions, though some Men condemn,
Not Envy could his Life and Actions blame;
So much of Heaven in his Talk was known,
Atheists from him have with Convictions gone;
To prove the Truth some Men much time have spent,
He was Religiou's Living Argument:
For whosoe're his pious Actions knew,
He must believe Religion to be true.
If as a private Man his Graces were
So bright; What was he as a Minister?
That Holy Function he his Pleasure made,
Religion was his Business, not his Trade:
With empty Shews his God he did not mock,
He neither car'd to fleece nor starve his Flock;
Painful in Preaching, constant still in Prayer,
The good of Souls was his—his only care.
His Doctrins he so well apply'd, that all
Who came to him for help, did never fail:
To Weak gave Strength, to Scrupulous gave ease,
And Balm apply'd to wounded Consciences;
The kind Physician of the sickly Soul,
How many now in Grief his Loss condole!
Altho' we cannot reach his Graces height,
Yet lawfully we all may imitate.
The Sweets of Sin how quickly are they past!
The Godly Life brings pleasure at the last.
This Truth full well the Reverend Baxter knew,
Who when he dyed, had nothing else to do:
His Peace with God was made, how few alas!
Of bright Professors are in such a Case?
If for Degrees of Grace are here attain'd,
Degrees of Glory are in Heaven gain'd.
Sure Pious Baxter may be thought to be,
A Star in Glory of the first Degree;
Who after a long Life of Pains and Age,
Death took him from this Frail, this Mortal Stage;
Who now in Heaven undoubtedly is blest,
With what he in his Works so well exprest,
The Saints expected Everlasting Rest.

EPITAPH.

Consider , Reader, who lies here,
And for thy Loss then Drop a Tear;
'Tis BAXTER, whose unwearied Pen
Strove to Reform the Lives of Men:
Who Godliness and Learning joyn'd
To all the Beauties of his Mind;
Of God and of good Men belov'd;
None e're their Talents more improv'd;
Heav'n lengthned out his Glass, that we
By him might learn true Piety:
His Soul is gone, true Bliss to find,
His Body here is left behind,
And through the World the Product of his Mind.