AN ELEGY On the Much- Bewailed DEATH of that Most Painful and Pious Minister of the Gospel Mr. ALEXANDER CARMICHEL, Who Departed this Life July 27. 1676.  

OH! that Affection could but make a Poet.  
If Grief could Rhyme with Art, sure I should do it.  
The tender Son that never Spoke before,  
To save his Father's Life turned Orator.  
And can I then forbear? No, writ I must,  
When such a Beam of Glory's wrapped in dust.  
Oh! Let me weep, and like a constant Spring,  
Unto the Sea of Grief some Tribute bring;  
Until my Cheeks with Tears, bedewed, do swell  
For this Seraphic Saint that lately fell.  
Fell, did I say, Thy pardon I require,  
Blessed Soul! thou Fallest, but 'tis to mount much Higher.  
Couldst thou from Death at All, Released be,  
Thy, Virtues surely might have set thee free.  
But 'twas a Debt, and with Inflamed desire,  
Thou soughtst to leave thy Mantle, and fly higher.  
How shall I Praise thy Worth, and not dispraise,  
Say More and not say Less, darkening thy Rays.  
Who 'ere was so far blest to hear thy Teaching,  
Was prone to think a Seraphim was Preaching;  
'Twas Augustine's Wish i'th' Pulpit Paul to hear,  
He had been Satisfied hadst Thou been there;  
Methoughts when thy sweet soul was Poured out  
In Fervent Prayer, I began to doubt.  
Whether Elias was come down again,  
And mounting Heaven with his Fiery Train;  
In This thou didst Excel, He Scaled the Fort  
Alone; But Thou thy Hearers didst Transport.  
Thy very Looks held forth an Air of Grace,  
Divinity was read even in thy Face;  
A sweet Humility about thee Shined,  
Wherein th' whole Chain of Graces seems Combined.  
And as a Ring these Diamonds to Enclose  
His Faith did solely on the Rock Repose.  
A painful Pastor, whose Prophetic Name,  
Did his unwearied Care for Christ proclaim.  
How was he fired with zeal even from his Youth,  
And though he lost all would hold fast the Truth.  
A downright upright M●n; A glittering Star,  
Whose s●c●ed Influence diffused far.  
From the Cold North with Heavenly heat he came,  
Our souls with Gospel Ardours to Inflame.  
Scotland first gave him Birth, But, oh! too soon  
Ingrateful England is become his Tomb.  
Then Stay and mourn with me you that go by,  
'tis, Sin to p●ss and not to cast an Eye.  
Upon this Teaching Spectacle, The Hearse  
Of one whose Name can dignify a Verse.  
The Earthly Relics of a Heavenly soul,  
who living did by's Words and Works Control.  
The Power of Sin; Whose Ministerial Breath  
Guided poor souls from Darkness and from Death.  
He whose whole life was a Continued Tract  
Of Practical Divinity, Each Act  
A Sermon, and each word an Explination,  
So that his people might by Imitation  
of him, and of his life, to Heaven c●me,  
Although they had been Deaf, or he been dumb.  
But that Almighty Power who from above  
Does all things order, and in whom we move.  
Wrapped all these treasures up in brittle Clay,  
Death gave't a Crack, and strait snatched all away.  
And now our sorrows swell to such a sum,  
That to express them best, is to be dumb.  
They that can count their Wealth, are counted poor  
And who can speak his Griefs can suffer more.  
'Tis Diminution to his Worth, to keep  
With single tears; Let all his Orphan sheep  
Join in one Lamentation, and let fall  
Their General Tears at this sad Funeral  
Of their Dear Shepherd, in whose Fatal Grave,  
Both He and They one Joint Interment have.  
From thence there's no Return for him to us,  
But we must by Degrees, all follow thus.  
He's gone before to Usher us, now dead,  
What all his life he Wrought, is Perfected.  
Living he Taught the way to Heaven whither  
Now dead, He's gone to Clea●'s the Passage thither.    

EPITAPH.  

CARMICHEL Sleeps! Spices you need not bring  
For's Body, Death itself's Embalmed to him.  
Ah! Blesled soul! his Sermons were not Done,  
When Preached, He Lived the Application;  
When Sick, his Pangs were Mercy for when ere  
A sigh was Breathed out, God Breathed in a Prayer.  
Lie Gently on him Dust, this Seed is ●own,  
To Spring again at th' Resurrection:  
Oh! for a verse in Black, Reader! prepare  
For every drop of Ink to melt a Tear,  
Yet stay with Grief there's cause of Joy  
●oy shall slay Tears for 〈…〉 for 〈…〉  
FINIS.    

LONDON, Printed for B. H. 1676. 90.