A PILLAR Set upon the Grave of the Reverend Dr. Robert wild.  
A Prophet and a Poet both! In both  
Excelling and Renowned! Oh, how loath  
The Merry World's to part with such a Wit,  
Sober Professors loather are to quit  
Their Soul-concerns in such a sound Divine,  
In whose Seraphic Lectures forth did shine  
The Lights and Warmth of the Eternal Spirit,  
Who (bound up in one Volumn) did Inherit  
The Poet's Laurel, and the Prophet's Crown,  
Yet rougher Hands did brush his Learned Gown:  
So hard a Task it is to please a World,  
That into various Shapes and Humour's hurled.  
Such a Grave Preacher cannot versify,  
Such a wild Fancy cannot Prophesy:  
Too light and Aery's Poems did appear●;  
Too home, Phanatick-like, his Sermons were.  
And Law-Conformity he did express,  
In Church-Liturgicks, and the Levites dress:  
A Scholar and a Droller, a Divine  
And jerking Satirist met in one Line:  
But these Erratas in near Seventy Pages,  
Will meet with Candid thoughts in milder Ages.  
Many the Loss of such a Preacher weep;  
Many Lament so great an Ovid's sleep.  
But sure the Jolly part out-numbers those  
Whose Hearts were Ravished with his Heavenly Prose.  
The World's great Common's stocked with Goats and Swine,  
They're few whose Souls those Sacred flames Refine:  
But what if Pregnant Wits in silence lie,  
Yet shall the Spirit be poured from on high:  
Then from the Root of Jess green Plants shall spring,  
And Young Neophytes Preach up Zion's King:  
Though Doctor after Doctor Death degrade,  
Yet our clear Sky Rome's Fogs shall never shade.  
Nor shall Trent-fathers' our pure Cannon alter,  
Though Monks escaped the Canonizing-Halter:  
But Oh— how did his sad Disciples shriek,  
When in his Chair and Parlour they did seek  
Doctor and Doctrine? But—  
He, stifled by an Asthma, was suspended,  
And, wanting Breath to Preach, his Life surrendered;  
Calling for Angels to hoist up his Soul  
On swistest Wings unto his Glorious Goal,  
Where thousand times ten thousands Christ surround;  
Oh, that Elijah's Mantle may be found  
Upon a Preaching Son, who may his Name,  
His Gifts and Graces, and keep up his Fame;  
That open House for them may still be kept,  
Who oft have Herd and Prayed, Rejoiced and Wept.  
Though Bishop Gout oft made him a poor Cripple,  
Yet worked he more for Christ than Rome's great Triple:  
His Chair less Fallible was than Porphiry Chair;  
His Table's end helped on that great Affair  
Of Sainting Sinners more than Hallowed Quires,  
And Purged them more than Purgatory Fires.  
But stay— 'tis not my Task to spread his Hearse  
With Panegyric, but Elegiac Verse:  
Nor drop my Tears upon the Poet's Urn,  
But o'er the Tomb of the Old Prophet Mourn;  
And take my part amongst those mourning one's  
Who do bewail his Loss in shrillest Tones:  
A Loss— only, compatible by such,  
Whose Hearts the Word Affectingly did touch;  
Whose Drooping Spirits oft were listed high,  
And on Faith's Feathers Heaven-ward did fly:  
May they hold up their flight to those high Stories,  
And He and They meet in th' Eternal Glories.  
May we, awakened by his sudden Change,  
Watch, and be found i'th' Temple's inner Range.  
May we, awakened by these fresh Alarms,  
Watch, and be found in Blessed Jesus Arms:  
And our Blessed Souls, not hurt by Second Death,  
May to the Lamb for ever Anthems breath.  
To these great Options, let our Faith say I,  
And let our Souls with Fervent Breathe cry,  
Lord Jesus, come, come quickly, Zion own,  
Amongst thy Saints advance thy Glorious Throne.  
FINIS.