A TEAR DROPPED FROM THE HEARSE Of the Reverend Dr. Benjamin Calamy; LATE Minister of St. Laurence Jury London, Who departed this Life on Sunday the 3d of January, 1685/6  Quis matrem in funere Nati Here vetat? 

AS when some Tempest rages in the Air,  
And against all the Wood proclaims a War,  
The Humble Shrubs are scarce concerned at all,  
Only the Oaks and mighty Cedars Fall;  
Those are a Prize to Beggarly and Low,  
But these become the Greatness of the Foe.  
Those remain Safe, because Defenceless quite,  
But against these doth their own Greatness Fight.   

Dust, thus it is in the Assaults of Fate,  
The Common Herd is seldom Brave or Great;  
They by the Foe do Unregarded lie,  
And Live so long till they would choose to Die.  
But where you see a large and spacious Mind,  
Where Worth and Virtue are with Learning joined;  
Where Noble Thoughts do with like Deeds conspire,  
And the whole Man is Perfect and Entire;  
There you may see the Malice of our Fate,  
And what Misfortunes doth on Virtue wait,  
Whilst those that never could deserve to Die,  
But might have Challenged Immortality,  
Meet still the soon with their Destiny.  
These are the Noblest, and the greatest Prey,  
And Fate by this, goes a compendious way;  
For she Wounds us, whilst she doth these Men Slay.  
Thus he Great BEN with all his Learning Dies;  
Too Early, and too Dear a SACRIFICE.  
He whose great mind was with all useful Knowledge fraught,  
That Nature ever gave, or Art has Taught;  
He and his Worth are Withered, cold, and Dead,  
And the Treasures of his Mind are Fled:  
Nothing has scaped the fierce and angry Flame,  
But his great Memory and Immortal Name.  
Nought such a Loss can equal or befit  
Less than his powerful Eloquence and Wit;  
Some small remains of those with us abide,  
But all the rest the envious Dark doth hid.  
Some single Sheets indeed the Press imparts,  
The rest are writ upon the Hearers Hearts:  
His Charming Periods are past and gone,  
And in his People's Lives must now be shown.  
Pity such Words in transient sounds should Die,  
Or in a Study unregarded ;  
Pity each falling Line had not been Writ  
In Characters as lasting as his Wit;  
That the next Age by him might learn to make  
Those Rules, by which they from that Place should speak.  
The Gospel in such streaming Sense did flow,  
When the Apostles Preached to Men Below:  
The Current sometimes troubled was, I own,  
Which by his seeming Lisping oft was shown;  
But 'twas the Torrent of his Eloquence,  
The strife betwixt his crowding Words and Sense;  
Still with such hidden Influence he could dive,  
And to his Hearers Breast himself derive;  
So gently touch each Fault and Festered Part,  
Yet the charmed Patient not betray the Smart.  
Can such a pleasing Force Evidence show,  
Yet still the Sinner unoffended go:  
It proved his Sermons could like Lightning Pierce  
Quite to the Blade, the Scabbard ne'er the worse:  
Which shows thou only, and some happy few,  
The true and genuine Art of Preaching knew.  
Our Church will own, though she receives a Blow,  
Yet still a Numerous Race of Youths can show,  
Who by thy Doctrine and Example fed,  
May come in time our Church's Cause to Head.  
And, Oh! If thy Example this can do,  
Why didst thou not let fall thy Spirit too?  
But say Blessed Shade, so soon why wouldst thou go,  
And take thyself from mournful Us below:  
Tell me didst thou by a foreseeing Eye,  
See some Black Tempest gathering in our Sky;  
Was that the cause?—  
I rather think the partial Hand of Fate  
Did but too ill thy Soul and Body Mate.  
If the Soul's Gaol the Body Style we must,  
Into the worst of Prisons thine was thrust:  
Thou tired and a weary to the Grave didst come,  
But leave that Life which was grown Burdensome.  
Hold, happy Shade, here must my Number cease,  
No more I will presume to vex thy Peace;  
Besides I see thy Praedecessors stand,  
To meet and joy thee to the promised Land.  
Go happy Saint, and there enjoy that Rest,  
Which here on Earth is still denied the Best.  
All we can do, is to Adorn thy HEARSE  
And hang it round with this poor Mortal VERSE.    

This may be Printed,  
R.L.S.   

LONDON, Printed by George Croom, at the Blue-Ball in Thames-street, near Baynard's-Castle. 1685.