A Funeral POEM ON THE DEATH OF THE REVEREND AND Learned Divine Mr. RICHARD BAXTER.  
Written by Mr. Tutchim.  
LONDON, Printed for Richard Baldwin, near the Oxford-Arms-Inn in Warwick-Lane, MDCXCII.   

A Funeral POEM, etc.  

'tIS a just Tribute paid, when we rehearse,  
Immortal Worthies in Immortal Verse;  
And mournful Cypress to Interments bring,  
Whose Praises Angels write, and Cherubs sing:  
Should we Lament, and Mourners here commence,  
'Twould break our Numbers, and confound our Sense;  
Excessive Grief all Harmony disturbs,  
Distracts the Fancy, and the Humour curbs;  
'Tis true, his Race he has too quickly run,  
He rose too lately, and he set too soon:  
But Tallest Cedars in the verdant Grove,  
Must stoop, when shook by the vast Power above;  
How good our Days are, and how long their Date,  
Is writ in the Eternal Book of Fate;  
The Sands of Life by heavens Decrees do pass,  
Nor dares Pale Death to move and shake the Glass:  
We weep not with the vast admiring throng,  
But thank the Deity he lived so long.   

He was an Offspring from Great Levi's Stem,  
Calvin and Luther were contained in Him;  
All Truth's mysterious Paths to him were known,  
And all the Virtues, that attend the Gown:  
He made the Foes of Truth Submit and Yield,  
And baffled Error in a Conquered Field;  
His Passions never could his Sense control,  
Nor prompt his Body to disturb his Soul:  
No Great Preferments could his Conscience bind,  
Corrupt his Judgement, or Debauch his Mind;  
For Minds resolved on Things above, bestow  
A just disdain on empty Joys below.   

Hail Sacred Soul! freed from those Cares below,  
And all the anxious Toils we undergo;  
From Pain, and Anguish, and Ten Thousand Ills,  
The Mortal Body in its Journey feels;  
Dismissed from the vile Tenement of Clay,  
Thy Mounting Soul cuts the Imperial Way;  
Winged like a Cherub through the Aether flies,  
Where Joys are Born, and Humane Frailty Dies:  
There Baxter is Eternally Possessed  
Of what he Wrote, his Everlasting-Rest:  
With vigorous Eyes he views his Blest Abode,  
A Bleeding Saviour, and a Smiling God.  
The numerous throng that their Blessed God adore,  
Large ranks of Saints he thither sent before;  
What though he did of Dangers here partake,  
And found a Prison for his Conscience sake,  
Like his Great Master he the Cross hath born,  
The Wiseman's Envy, and the Wickeds Scorn:  
But Scenes of Bliss, and unpolluted Joy,  
All thoughts of past Calamities destroy.   

Some of you Mitred Heads with Honours Crowned,  
And you whose Temples are with Laurel bound;  
Who living are to Bishoprics preferred,  
And are when Dead, with Kings and Queens Interred,  
Where lasting Urns the Sacred Relics keep,  
Whilst their Dead Worthies most profoundly Sleep!  
Can your Sepulchral Marble endure the rage  
Of Envious Fame, or all-devouring Age?  
When Time to ruin shall your Statues cast,  
The Name of Baxter and his Fame shall last;  
Whilst Saints are living, and his Volumes read,  
They round the Orb his lasting Fame shall spread:  
And if when Dead, Prophet's Instruction give,  
The Name of Baxter and his Fame shall live.   
FINIS.