A POEM On the Death of the Reverend Mr. john Weeks, Late Pastor to a Congregation in Bristol, Who Died Novemb. the 23d. 1698. Aetat. 65.  
By Mr. STANDEN.  
Dignum laude virum Musa vetat mori.  Horat. 
BRISTOL: Printed and Sold by W. Bonny, on the Back. 1699.   

A POEM On the Death of the Reverend Mr. John Weeks.  

WHen powerful Shades had chased the cheering Light,  
And the i'll Horrors of the gloomy Night  
Invaded all the dusky Hemisphere,  
And sable Atoms filled the lowering Air.  
When deepest Silence weary Eyes did close,  
And tempted Mortals to a soft repose:  
In troubled thoughts, and Dreams abrupt I lay,  
In vain retired from the noisy Day.  
I waked, till ominous Sleep returned agên,  
And to my eyes appeared the dismal Scene.  
Methought I saw the Great Philander lie,  
His dear Irene pale, and weeping by:  
Each Face, but his, a settled Grief did wear,  
And all the Symptoms of a black Despair.  
The force of long Disease could not control  
The Life and vigour of his generous Soul:  
Nor all the Terrors of approaching Death  
Can force a Murmur from his parting Breath.  
Through all the rising Shades of Death I saw  
Remaining Beams of Majesty and Awe,  
Undaunted Courage fixed, and Joy serene,  
And growing hopes of dawning Glory seen.  

As when behind an Occidental cloud  
The Sun does all his Evening Lustre ,  
As he descends down to the Western Flood;   
Yet through the watery Veil appearing fair,  
With scattered Beams does gild the yielding Air.  
So scorned he Terrors past, and those behind  
Can not eclipse the beauty of his Mind.  
And now the dreadful Shades more thick approach,  
And on expiring vital Breath encroach:  
And after all, in haste came close behind  
The Universal Terror of Mankind.  
The meager Tyrant straight advancing nigh  
Insulting lifts his fatal Javelin high:  

Thrice he essayed to strike, and thrice recoiled,  
Afraid such awful Goodness to behold,  
Seemed bribed with Virtue, tho' ne'er bribed with Gold.   
The Sons of Hell with eager Joy he'd seize,  
(With Carnage vast his hungry Maw t' appease,)  
Who are condemned, when spent their latest breath  
To endless pains, and everliving Death;  
On these his fierce resistless Rage he shows,  
By these his vast extended Empire grows:  
But seems unwilling to release the Just,  
And send their dying Remnants down to Dust,  
And their refined Souls, all gay and bright,  
To the glad Realms of Joy, and endless Light.  
Thus lingering long the King of Terrors stood,  
Nor wished to spill the Reverend Prophet's Blood;  
Till urged by the Almighty's Sov'rain Hand,  
Who over Death has absolute Command,  
Into the willing Breast his Dart he flings,  
Deprived of all its Flames, and all its Stings.  
He bows his head, and yields without control,  
And in a gentle Sigh he breathed his Soul.   

The fatal Moment passed, without relief  
I sunk beneath the ponderous load of Grief.  
The mighty Sorrows in my Bosom penned  
Impetuous rose, too big for Tears to vent.  

From off my Head the gaudy Wreath I tore,  
Which for the dear Almeria's sake I wore,  
By her own hands fresh twined not long before.   
A gelid Horror struck my trembling Heart,  
And more than He I felt the Mortal Dart.  
As when loud Thunders breaking from on high,  
And forked Lightnings through the flaming Sky,  
With massy Bolts the Rocks and Mountains tear,  
And fill around th' astonished World with fear;  
The Earth convulst with hideous crashing breaks,  
Recoils, and frighted to the Centre shakes.  
To started back my Soul, till now unmoved,  
Though oft th' efforts of angry Fate I proved.  
Sorrows on Sorrows rolled, and sore oppressed  
The sinking Powers of my wounded Breast.  
Till looking upwards to the Radiant Skies,  
More joyous Objects met my wondering Eyes.   

A Tract of Light appeared serene and fair,  
And shining Glory blazoned all the Air,  
Up to the Verge of Heaven and Crystal Gate,  
At whose bright Entrance flaming Seraphs wait:  

And all the way, by heavens dread King's command  
Arranged in close and beauteous order stand,  
On either side the numerous faithful Band,   
(Nor dreaded they proud Lucifer's alarms)  
With massy golden Shields, and lucent Arms.  
And in the midst, up to the blessed Abode  
The Glorious Saint all in gay Triumph road,  
High mounted on a gorgeous Chariot bright,  
Whose dazzling splendour crushed the wounded sight:  
Saluted, as he passed the Heavenly Crowd,  
With shouts of Joy, and Hallelujahs loud.  
Thus through the Air, the dark confines of Hell,  
Where the fallen Spirits, and swarthy Daemons dwell,  
They swiftly passed, while trembling far away  
Th' Infernal Legions fled th' approach of Day:  

And mad with Envy, gnashing from afar,  
They grovelling prostrate lay in panic fear,  
And foamed and raged and shook their Snaky hair.   
Mean while the pompous Triumph made its way  
To the fair Entrance of Eternal Day.  
Ten thousand thousand Angel-Trumpets sound,  
And the vast Realms of Heaven all echoed round.  
My feeble Sight no longer could pursue  
The glorious Vision now beyond my View.   

This Scene a while my Sorrows did restrain,  
Till all the gloomy Thoughts returned again.  
In vain, alas, I roved from place to place,  
My Terrors with my flight kept equal pace,  
I wandered to a Grove, whose darksome shade  
Might seem a fit Recess for Sorrow made:  
Where in the midst a Temple great appeared,  
With lofty Head on Doric Pillars reared;  
Whose wide and open Portals did display  
A vast Assembly on the solemn Day,  
The solemn Day, when from the sable Chair,  
With Artless Sighs, and with a mournful Air,  

Divine Cleander to the Crowd addressed,  
With Voice, and Gesture, Passion deep expressed,  
And stirred fresh Grief in every troubled Breast:   
For as the vast and public Loss he showed,  
From numerous Eyes the briny Currents flowed.  
In pensive Shades from hence retired I sat,  
And thus I mourned inexorable Fate.   

Farewell, Farewell, the Dearest, and the Best,  
From this vain World gone up to endless Rest.  
The bravest, the faithfullest Friend I ever knew,  
Always caressing, and yet always true.  
No more shall I behold that cheerful Face,  
Nor see that awful Majesty and Grace.  
No more the charming Prophet's Voice attend,  
And Prayers to Heaven no more together send.  
No more shall he sad Hearts with Joy inspire,  
Nor kindle frozen Souls with Heavenly Fire.  
No more shall he, with Noblest Zeal possessed  
Conduct the Righteous to Eternal Rest.  
No more shall he pronounce the dreadful Word,  
Nor brandish up aloft the flaming Sword,  
The Sword of God, nor tell the Joys above,  
And all the Pleasures of that World of Love.  
No more shall he the wicked Rage oppose,  
Nor plead the Orphans and the Widows Cause;  
No more shall others Sorrows break his Rest,  
No more shall help the Injured and Oppressed.  
No more shall we in sweet Converses walk,  
No more of high Celestial Wonders talk;  
Until the last Archangel-Trump shall sound,  
" To raise the sleeping Nations under Ground:  
And the Great God in flaming Vengeance come,  
To speak to all the World the final Doom.  
Then may I see the Mighty Prophet's Face  
With a more Godlike Air, and Heavenly Grace:  

Then may We with redoubled Gladness meet,  
May I his State with loud Applauses greet,  
And sit beneath the Great Philander's Feet.    

And now the gloomy Shades were chased away,  
And fled apace before the coming Day:  
Yet blacker still the Scene of Horror grew,  
I waked and found the fatal Vision true.   
FINIS.