Iter boreale With large additions of several other poems: being an exact collection of all hitherto extant. Never before published together. The author R. Wild |
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ON THE DEATH OF MR. CALAMY,
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ON THE DEATH OF MR. CALAMY,
Not known to the Author of a long time after. Anno 1667.
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.
'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;
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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.
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 Crackf---'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 plaid
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, he would have told;
All had come out, and we beholden all
To him, for th' ovreflowing of his gall.
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.
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Is now a Silenc'd Man as well as We)
He had struck up loud Musick, and had plaid
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, he would have told;
All had come out, and we beholden all
To him, for th' ovreflowing of his gall.
But why do I thus Raut 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'ts 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.
Unbribed Loyalty! his highest reach
Was to 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.
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,
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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'ts 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.
Unbribed Loyalty! his highest reach
Was to 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
Form 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, driv'n out, and kept out, liv'd to see
Wars, Blazing-Stars, Torches, which Heav'n nev'r burns,
But to light Kings or Kingdoms to their Urns.
He liv'd 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 Feaver, did expire.
Thus dy'd this Saint, of whom it must be said,
He dy'd a Martyr, though he dy'd in's bed.
So Father Eli 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.
His grief was Chronical it is reply'd.
For had he opened been by Surgeons art,
They had found London burning in his heart;
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Receive with Christian Magnanimity!
The Stone, Gout, Dropsie, Ills which did arise
Form 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, driv'n out, and kept out, liv'd to see
Wars, Blazing-Stars, Torches, which Heav'n nev'r burns,
But to light Kings or Kingdoms to their Urns.
He liv'd 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;
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As with a Burning Feaver, did expire.
Thus dy'd this Saint, of whom it must be said,
He dy'd a Martyr, though he dy'd in's bed.
So Father Eli 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.
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