THE ELEGY On that Reverend Presbyter Mr. WILLIAM JENKINS, Who Finished his Obstinacy the 19th. of January in the Goal of Newgate, where are above Fourscore Dissenters, of almost as many of the several scattered Churches remaining. In a Dialogue between Despair and Comfort: In Imitation of a former Elegy, in Dialogue between Faith and Sense. Seized and-supprest by Authority. Despair. Prison's accursed! and more accursed Law! Why will you from the fainting Brethren draw More mournful Notes, and from their Eyes more Tears, Than all the Blood of almost twenty Years, Which their Reforming pious Swords ere drew, When the new Israel the Philistian Thousands slew? Comfort. Leave Murmuring: his freed Soul has found Relief From Two Confinements, both his Equal Grief; Called by his great and potent Masters down From a loathed Hierarchy, and hated Crown. Weep for thyself, for he's for Bliss designed, Leaving a Toryfied cursed World behind. Despair. Lament I must and will in such a strain, Shall wake even Nell and Bradshaw's Ghost again; I will roar out, and with a Voice so shrill, As even great TONYES' mighty Court shall fill: I'll call the Furies up, and summon all Our aiding Friends below t'avenge his Fall. Comfort. Weep not; in Jail he drew his latest Breath, And Justice self's a Tyrant in his Death. Great Charles his barbarous and lawless Doom Was Good and Just; but if even Law presume, Nay after a whole Age of Mercy, come To touch the suffering Saint, 'tis MARTYRDOM; Nor shall we want those Trumpets to declare, How Rome and Hell 'gainst Truth and Heaven make War. 〈◊〉 Of Tears as large as fallen that cursed Hour, When Keeling's Sacramental Silence broke, Or Burnett in the dying Russ●ll spoke! Remembrance of our Dear Republic Reign, And the old politic Game revived in vain; And this dear Champion laid in Honour's Bed, Calls all the Brine our Bloodshot Eyes can shed. Comfort. Forbear this dull Mistake; thy fruitless C●yes Bespeak Impatience: 'tis but Jenkins dies; His transmigrated Spirit stays, you know, To animate the Brethren Saints below. His Death to us should but new Life afford, Warmed with th'old Glory, with th'old conquering Sword, To fight the famous Battles of the Lo●d. Despair. Ah but he's gone! That word more 〈◊〉 e Terror brings, Than the old Axe that cut the Throat of KINGS: When Monarches bleed, the Stroke's not worth a Tear; But here our Loss does darker Mourning wear. He's gone, who almost six and forty Years, Preached up the Good OLD CAUSE in Sighs and Tears: That Saint who in the Days of Reformation, By his long painful Gospel-propagation, So many Hearts, so many Hands could bring, To raise the glorious Scaffold of a King: He whose blessed Labours could thus far prevail, Finished his Testimony in a Jail. Comfort. Cease Exclamations; tho' his Race is run, Dying before the finished Work was done, By Popish Noise and pious Oats begun. Still constant in adhering to th' Intrigue, Of th' ever blessed Associating League. His pitied and untimely Fate but draws Thousands of new made Converts to the Cause. Dying in Jail, he loudly Preaches more, More than in all the Tubs he thumped before. Despair. If gasping Anarchy endures such Rubs, When Cedars fall, what will become of Shrubs? How shall the faintness of a strength so weak, The Gown and Mitres Long loathed Union break. In Jenkins speechless Tongue does silenced lie, A greater piece of Kirk Artillery, 'Gainst Tory Laws, Crowned Heads, and Prelate Loons, Than College Flails, and Rumbold's Musquetoons. Comfort. No, we'll not fear an overthrow or harm, Whilst Antichrist and Poperies long-tried charm Shall raise us Bulwarks. Who can Leaders want, Under the Bannors of the Covenant? For tho' grim Death does home some servants call, That Charm shall conjure strength to conquer all. Despair. But oh! what cursed Infatuation broke Justice and Laws long sleep, thus to provoke The Royal Frowns to raise this fatal stroke? See trembling Zion shakes. Can it be hoped The Kirk can stand when it is thus unproped? When thus our Corner stone to Fate must shrink, Ah! how my troubled Soul's amazed to think, How the whole fainting tottering Pile will sink. Comfort. No, All must die. In dust our Prophet see: Nought but our Mighty Cause so strong can be, As to claim Patents t'Immortality. When the've done all, let Law and Power still frown Like the dissected Snake, crushed and run down, We'll re-cement to sting the Church and Crown. Could Peter thrice his Sovereign Lord deny? Our glorious Cause that Spirit shall supply, As shall three thousand times our King's defy. Despair. But oh! the heavy Law's a blow too sore when even INDULGENCE was no less before, What's TOLERATION without Sovereign power. The Kirk Dominion lost, and King restored, Was a sad stroke toth' Servants of the Lord. When once the Pagan Organs played, too soon All our Spiritual Hymns were out of tune. Comfort. There was a Time WE exercised the Rod O'er Heathen Strafford, Laud and CHARLES, when GOD WITH US the Beatific Rump empowr'd: And heavenly Love in Royal Gore was showered. That dear remembrance mitigates our crosses, Whilst future hope shall ease our present losses. Despair. My Eyes must vent my grief upon his Hearse, And weep in earnest, tho' I weep in Verse, When Absalon died, a Royal Tear was shed, And with great Charles an Innate Mercy bred, Mourns even to take a forfeit Traitors Head. So must I take a privilege to mourn, A Shimei or Achitophel t' his Urn. Comfort! Dry up thy Tears, for whom thou mournest is blest, In Death he meets the Whigs long Stranger REST. Tho' turbulent against the Royal Will, The Grave has laid the restless Engine still. In Patience wait; our ripening Plots attend, To mount the Cause, and Righted Kirk defend. ACROSTIC. Well now e'en Heav'nwards let thy Soul repair, If thou art sure that no Lawn Sleevesare there, Look to it Jenkins, for 'tis worth thy Care. Lawn Sleeves 'tis certain no small power have showed, In keeping thee from Church, if not from God: And more than 20 mourning years overpassed, Mitre and Surplice broke thy heart at last. In the old Days, the Blessed Directory, Egypt's dear Flesh-pot, was thy Pride and Glory: Now with the Liturgies long Manna tired, Kecking to peuck th' ore-straining Saint expired. In Covenants and Holy Leagues long tied, No longer could the nauseous Taste abide, So in a kind of a Scotch Qualm he died. Sold by Walter Davis in Amen-Corner, 1685.